


Burn

by YurisSpanx



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Arson, Bipolar Disorder, Codependency, Communication Failure, Crimes & Criminals, Eating Disorders, Frottage, Gay Sex, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Oral Sex, Paranoia, Police, Repression, Rimming, Slow Burn, Some F/M Making Out, Stalking, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 74,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28689012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YurisSpanx/pseuds/YurisSpanx
Summary: Lain and Ember are two out of control arsonists embroiled in a petty war. Vincent and Drew are two repressed police officers artfully dodging their feelings. After they clash in the middle of the night outside Lain's hollow mansion, none of them can continue living the way they always have been.
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few years ago. In hindsight, this is a whole lotta evidence that I had undiagnosed OCD. So enjoy that lmao.

A china ornament thudded onto carpeted floor. Lain's attention snapped upwards, staring at the ceiling, a perfect line of white scalp showing between the middle part in his black hair. A swirl of darkness, like shadow, engulfed the place in the cream wood that the sound had come from. At the stomp of a rubber, high-heeled sole, the swirl dispersed, and Lain was running upstairs, his velvet slippers scuffing out any further noise from the second floor. 

When he got upstairs, the blackout curtains in his father's old bedroom were streaming out through an open window. He rushed to it and stared downwards at the moonlit grass below. A black-clad figure crouched, topped by a tangle of red hair. 

"What did you do?" Lain yelled downwards, his voice like a Royal Albert china cup with a crack down one side. 

Two golden brown eyes looked up at him. Ember smiled, then straightened up and waved a bundle of papers over her head. 

"I found some poems," she said. 

"What?" Lain shrieked, leaning out the window and into the cold sting of the night. 

Ember, still waving the papers at him, got out her lighter. 

"No!"

His cry was punctured with a "Shut up!" from next door. 

"You want me to burn down your house?" he yelled back, then bent down, picked up a broken ornament and flung it down at Ember. She dodged it, then stomped on the shards of the once gallant knight. 

With a last flick of the papers, she darted down the patch of grass beside the house, hair extensions billowing out almost a metre behind her. 

Lain ran back through the house to the most important of his seven cupboards and flung it open. Its hinges groaned with derision while he snatched up two of the long gas lighters from the middle shelf, above the fire extinguisher and mini barbeque. Next, he grabbed his keys and gate opener, shoving them into the pocket of his tight black jeans. 

He flung himself out of the house and down the driveway as Ember's leg hooked over the top of his iron gate, her boot buckle nearly catching in a curved iron leaf. He pressed the gate opener in his pocket just as she jumped down onto the footpath beyond his property. 

~*~

Drew pulled her glad wrapped ham, cheese, and lettuce sandwich out of the glove box, while Vincent continued driving. He fed the steering wheel through his hands, his elbows locked like he were a crash-test dummy.

"Want a bite?" she asked, nudging a wholegrain triangle in his direction. Her smile, nestled in her heart-shaped face and framed by flicks of hair that shone golden under the street lights, was the perfect combination of hopeful and easygoing. She wasn't aware of the unease that sharpened the corners. "I didn't put any tomato in, this time, so it didn't go soggy."

"No," Vincent said, continuing to stare out the windows at the suburban houses and their shadows. A sting in the front of his brain made him add, finally, "Thank you."

He had the sort of sharp cheekbones, cruel, grey eyes, pale skin, and coathanger shoulders a photographer would have loved. But in the car, under the street light, the shadows hooked into his hollow cheeks and his brow hung in a pinched arrow down to his too big, too straight nose. Everyday light had forsaken him, and most deemed him ugly. Drew had convinced herself that he was beautiful in all lights. She watched him as she munched on her sandwich, then blinked rapidly and turned to the windows. 

The police radio crackled and a voice seeped into the car, “Comms CAI. Young male and female spotted starting fires in Parnell.”

Drew pushed the button on the intercom and said. “CAI2 Comms. 10-3.”

“Comms CAI2. Outside twelve Feverley Street, Parnell, black haired male and red haired female, both in early twenties, seen starting fires and most likely trying to cause each other harm. More information forthcoming.”

“CAI2 Comms. 10-2,” Drew said, while Vincent flicked on the sirens and sped up.

“Comms CAI2. The owner of the house is Lain Bellamy, who has been arrested for arson twice before and public fighting once, always involving a woman named Ember Delaware, also arrested on those occasions. Both fit the physical description.”

“I’ll have a look at them on the computer,” Drew said, and Vincent nodded curtly, his joints tightening with the increase in speed.

Comms continued, “Bellamy is diagnosed with bipolar disorder, prone to unpredictable, hysterical behaviour, doesn’t respond well to handcuffs or other restraints. Use them with caution. Delaware easily provoked into mild violence, but rational when calm.”

“CAI2 Comms. Got that,” Drew said. “Checking photos now.”

Vincent glanced at the computer in the glove compartment, then snapped his focus back to the road. Though the sirens were suddenly too loud and seemed to be emitting heat in time with their wails, he managed to focus enough on his swiftly receding surroundings not to crash.

Once he’d parked outside the forest green gate sporting a gold, cursive ‘twelve’ and a row of filigree spikes, he allowed himself another look at the computer screen, but the picture had changed.

"Shall I go after her?" Drew asked, her cheeks as pink as his, though, unlike him, she was used to the feeling of fire in her face. 

"Okay," Vincent said. 

They got out of the car and scanned the street, finding only the streetlights' orange glow reflected in windows, cobblestones and fences, no sign of fire. A black, uneven shape against the corner of the green gate caught Vincent’s eye, and he walked over to it, kneeling down. It smelt like his toaster, but ten times worse, a lump of old rags, blackened in swirling patches that matched the creases in the cloth, with a circle of black in the middle, almost burnt right through.

“What’s that?” Drew asked, crouching over Vincent, who felt hemmed in by the curve of her human form. She moved to lean against the bars of the gate. 

He lifted up the corner of the rag and swept it gently aside, revealing only a pile of ashes. Then he stood up, and they scanned the area.

“There!” Drew whispered, pointing at the flash of red a couple of houses away.

As they ran quietly towards it, two human shapes materialised out of a brick wall, while the red flame spun to the ground and fizzled out. The pair ahead, now visible as a thin man with black hair and a tall woman with wavy red hair that seemed to be bursting out of its hair tie, shot in different directions. Drew chased the woman across the road, and Vincent’s feet slammed into the footpath, following the man down the street and around the corner.

As he caught up with him, he bowled into him with enough force to bring the other man to the ground, black hair flying in his eyes and a yelp squeaking by his ear.

He sat up, straddling the man’s thighs between his own and pinning his wrists to the small of his back.

“No, no,” a desperate, near hysterical, but surprisingly well-spoken voice edged through the space between the man's mouth and the footpath. But it was the eyes that made Vincent hesitate as the man twisted his head around, gravel embedded in his cheek. The eyes were far too large, green and direct for Vincent’s taste, and the volume of eyelashes seemed wholly unnecessary. No, he didn’t like them at all. Even their angle was a bit too slanted. He tried to look away, but it was like staring at a wound – unpleasant, yet compelling.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tilted his head down slightly, and opened them to the much more bearable sight of the wriggling wrists pinned by his own strained hand.

“You don’t need to use the handcuffs,” the man’s voice beckoned his eyes upwards again, this time smoother, more controlled and beguiling. “I’ll be good – if you don’t use them.”

Vincent took a deep breath, and remembered what Comms had said about handcuffs.

“You’re Lain Bellamy,” he said, not quite a question.

The man nodded and fluttered his eyelashes a little. “What’s your name?”

“Vincent.”

“Vincent,” Lain repeated every syllable clearly, making the name sound like a linguistic work of art. He turned his head to smile at him, taking in the cropped black hair, grey eyes, pallid complexion and, most of all, the uncharacteristic flush against his sharp, gaunt cheekbones. Lain’s smile was cheeky, not malicious, but Vincent still believed he was making fun of him.

"They won't be on for long," Vincent said, pulling out handcuffs. 

The clink of the metal seared through Lain's brain. 

"No!"

He wrenched his wrists free of Vincent's, sliding through their sweat. Vincent's joints stuck for a moment, then he leapt forward and wrapped his arms around Lain’s torso and elbows. Lain pushed against those arms, just bone and muscle wound tight with cheap, white wrapping paper. Would they puncture like paper? Lain leant forward and clamped his teeth around the cold flesh, and Vincent recoiled from his hot mouth. 

They tumbled apart, concrete scraping their backs, and stared at each other. Lain, spit clinging to his lips and eyes like green sparklers, heaved gusts of wind into his lungs. His fingers clawed at the footpath as though even the scenery was too restrictive for him. Segments of his hair had leapt to and fro, which suited his face more. The handcuffs, still clutched in a white hand, started to make Vincent feel sick. He opened his hand, nails dislodging from his palm, and the metal slid onto the footpath. 

"Vincent!" Drew's footsteps thudded into their spines. 

She hesitated in front if the pair sprawled on the grey concrete, then darted to Lain and bundled his wrists into another set of handcuffs. 

Lain's scream tore through the skin of everyone it awoke. A ginger cat streaked down the street, heading for the least threatening shrubbery it could find. 

"It's okay." Drew smoothed Lain's hair back from his forehead. "Just squish your wrists together like it was your idea to put them like that, like you could move them apart but you don't want to."

Lain's eyes rolled up to look at her as she beamed down at him like another planet's sun, and he did as he was told. His breathing quickened. 

"Breathe," Drew whispered. She put a hand over his chest and patted it in a slow and steady rhythm. "Like that."

Lain's breathing started to fill his ears and mind, tearing through every thought. He scrunched his eyes closed, gulped, sobbed, and started again, copying her rhythm. Every time the flow skipped and quickened, her pats turned into firm strokes until he slowed down. 

Vincent sat up and swallowed bile firmly back into his stomach. His nausea wouldn't subside, and his head spun with every breath Lain took, even the slow ones. When Drew started to help Lain up, he lurched upwards and forwards to help, and they each took a shoulder, more to guide than restrain. 

They walked him over to the car and sat him beside Ember in the back seat, who reached over and clasped her hands with his. 

Drew shut the back door and said, "Ember told me to say those things."

"I'll tell Sergeant Kaur you did well," Vincent said, leaning against the car.

"Thanks," Drew said, grinning. "I won't tell him you flaked." 

Vincent pressed a hand to his forehead and groaned, then got in the car. Drew got in the front passenger seat, then noticed the dents in Vincent's arm. 

"Maybe you should get that checked."

"He's the cleanest person I know," Ember said. "He's more likely to get a disease. No tolerance to germs."

Vincent looked down. Fine hairs stuck out at crooked angles around the dents. He was sure his skin had nothing to give anyone. 

~*~

Lain was sitting in the corner of the holding cell furthest from the bars, to extend his view of the couple of metres of speckled grey floor. It wasn’t working, and he found himself unable to speak, his voice as locked in his body. At least his arms were free to wrap around his knees and pull them up to his chin, while he stared straight ahead until his vision turned into a merciful blur of grey.

Eventually, a guard pulled him out and led him down a corridor to where Yelizabeta was standing, holding her own hands. He opened his mouth to ask her how she’d known, but his voice wouldn’t escape confinement so quickly. Lucky for her, for he wasn’t in the mood to learn of the chain of communication that still existed between her and Ember.

She smiled, and her voice was as soft as her white chiffon skirts. “Let’s get you home.”

He nodded and followed her until they reached the cool morning air, which chilled the liquid in his brain. 

She didn’t have a car, a symptom of her psychology and sociology double degree and her faraway parents, so they took the bus back to his house.

“Shall I make you French toast?” she asked, wriggling in the fuzzy, worn bus seat.

He shrugged, his head dipping low. She decided to do it, anyway, and he would pick at it, separating the bread into soggy, fibrous strings. One piece would go in, and it would make him feel sick, but it would taste too good not to eat the rest.

Eventually, his voice strained through the bars in his throat. “Ember burnt…” the words got stuck, “something.”

She blinked at him. “Of course. Didn’t you?”

His mouth twisted and he nodded, dropping his head onto her shoulder.

~*~

Lain scrubbed at the wooden bench outside the larger-than-necessary (he would  _ not _ be intimidated) courtroom doors with a tissue. Lord knew he couldn’t trust other criminals to be as clean as him. He sat down on the edge and crossed his legs.

“Trying to look sissy so they’ll go easy on you?” 

Only one voice had that lilt, like a careless stroke turning into a slap, or perhaps the other way around. He turned to Ember, eyes sparking.

“No,” he said, considering her for a moment. “How's Qianbei?”

“None of your business,” she said, pulling her cropped jacket closer around her, its gold beads jangling.

“Fine, then.” He folded his arms and turned slightly away from her, then muttered, “I still can’t believe you’re  _ marrying _ him. Not that you'll have guests.”

“Shut up, you swine,” she spat, slamming her stiletto into his bordeaux leather boot. She couldn’t let him get away with it, even if he was one of the few who supported her relationship.

Lain hissed and whacked her leg away, and raised his hand to do something – anything, when a hand enclosed his forearm and yanked it back. He looked up and behind him to see that grey-eyed cop who so enjoyed clutching at his wrists, it appeared.

“Oh, it’s you!” Lain smiled, then gave Ember’s leg a good kick before turning his full attention to Vincent.

“Yes, me,” he said, furrowing his brow at Lain’s upturned mouth.

“Vincey, right?” 

“No…”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was Vincey.”

“My name is Vincent,” he said, then turned to Ember, who had her hand in Lain’s bag. “Stop that.”

Her hand withdrew like a wounded viper, but not fast enough to escape a slap from Lain.

“What’re you going to burn next?” he growled.

“Your fucking head,” she said through her teeth.

“Get up,” Vincent said before Lain could respond, pulling him up by the top of his sleeve. “Your case will start soon.”

“Oh, yay,” Lain said with a clap of his hands. 

“You’re not actually going to defend yourself, are you?” Vincent asked.

“No, no.” Lain waved his hand. “I agree with the charge. I’m very bad and all that. But this is the best part of getting arrested.”

“Worst part of being a cop,” Vincent said, then wondered why he’d said it, even if it was true. 

“Just pretend everyone’s in their underwear and you won’t feel nervous anymore,” Lain said, patting him on the arm.

Vincent shook his hand off with an, “Ugh, no,” then directed him through the double doors, which didn’t need to be so big; it was just a waste of space that reminded him there was an audience in there.

Ember smirked as she watched them go, then pulled out her phone and searched through her contact list. As she listened to it ring, she swung to and fro, letting the little ginger cat dangling from the phone bob against her hand.

“Hi, Ember,” Todd said, voice pulled down at the ends.

“Do you want to go out for drinks, tonight? I’m getting new charges, today, and I want to celebrate!”

“Oh, God, you’re as bad as Lain.”

“He’s here, too!”

“Oh!” his voice lightened, and she let herself snicker. “Get him to come, too!”

“No way.”

“Please?”

“Do you forget who I am?”

“Fine! I’ll see you at 7 at Rick's,” he said, then hung up.

Ugh! Drunk Uni students. She knew better than to give him a chance to choose the bar, didn’t she?

~*~

The judge frowned at Lain over the bench, taking in his long, black eyelashes and ruffled collar punctured by a sapphire brooch. Lain resisted the urge to fidget with his sleeves. 

“I understand that dear Vincey and Drew were just doing their jobs,” he said.

The cop standing next to him rustled with barely suppressed laughter, Drew pressed her lips together, eyes bulging, and Vincent blanched, his body seizing up with painful anger.

“But I’m claustrophobic,” he continued, “so my behaviour wasn’t malicious.”

“You’re also bipolar,” the judge said, keeping a straight face. “Are you in therapy?”

Lain shook his head while his eyes hardened. 

“You’re to see an appointed therapist, in addition to a $2000 fine and three weeks’ community service.”

“Right.” Lain’s voice tightened. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ember waved to Todd as she stepped around tables, avoiding a squashed chip on the floor. He nodded at her, drink already in hand.

“How are you this fine evening?” she asked, gliding into a chair opposite him and staring at him through golden-brown contact lenses.

He shrugged and looked at her moodily, head tilted down. 

“Aren’t you going to get a drink?” he asked.

“I wanted to say hi, first.” She rolled her eyes and hefted herself up from her chair. She could tell she was in for an extra-pathetic Todd, so ordered a glass of red wine.

As she walked back to the table, she held the glass up to her face and looked at Todd through the liquid. At least his clothes looked brighter, a deep burgundy instead of whatever swamp colour that was supposed to be, but he still looked like a little hedgehog, shoulders curled and spines out.

Whoops, what was that sliding under her foot? She carefully lowered the glass and stared at the smearing of potato where she had stepped. She wondered if she should take a cue from Todd and stare at the ground a bit more.

“So, what’s your sentence?” Todd asked when she sat back down.

“A big fat fine and community service.” She wrinkled her nose.

“I mean, your non-official one.”

She laughed, perhaps a little loud and tinny, but she couldn’t fake that glee in her eyes. Then she shrugged and smiled widely at him, laughing again at his frustrated huff of breath.

“My non-official sentence hasn’t been delivered to me, yet,” she said to placate him, because no one likes an even-more-sulky-than-usual Todd.

“Keep me posted,” he said, before taking a swig of his drink.

“Yes, because I know you’re  _ so _ worried about my safety,” she said, and he scowled as if he were the one slighted. “Ugh, you’re boring me. Drink faster!” 

He almost choked on whatever it was in his glass as she tapped it from the bottom, towards his face. Nevertheless, he let the momentum continue until the rest of the drink was gone, then sat there blinking at her for a moment, as though he were actually interested in her. She had to laugh at that thought.

“Don’t make fun of me,” he said, though a little laugh escaped, turning into a giggle.

“You’re only good for something if you’re fun, dearest Todd,” she said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. She didn’t bother smoothing it down again – sticking up, it opened up his face and made him look almost pixie-like.

“That’s a little harsh,” he said, wrinkling his brow like a child unable to comprehend the perceived cruelty of adults.

“Lighten up, you dour old cow.” She flicked him on the cheek, and he belatedly tried to dodge it.

He paused, staring at her apprehensively. “So. Do you know if Lain has anyone at the moment?” His serious face ruined the illusion that he could become fun (and unrepetitive).

“I don’t know,” she said with exaggerated exasperation, then skulled the rest of her wine, braced her arms against the table, and said, “Let’s go burn stuff.”

“No,” he said, reaching for her arm, but she slid out of his grip like a silk stocking. “Stay.” He leant forwards, head tilted down, eyes tilted up, arm extended. She burst out laughing, then grabbed his wrist and yanked him upright, pulling him in the direction of the door, with no reprieve for his poor shoulder.

She finally let him go when they were out in the cool night air, streetlights shining in their eyes and almost blinding them after the dim bar.

“If you can’t catch me, you’re a loser!” she exclaimed before clattering down the stairwell, towards solid ground. He didn’t bother running after her, trying to convince himself that he could catch her if he tried, and that he just couldn’t be bothered. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she turned to him and made an ‘L’ shape on her forehead, then ran to the nearest noticeboard, whipping out her lighter as she went, and scraped it along the posters for tramping clubs, psychology surveys, and student plays. Only then did he start running.

~*~

“Hi Vincent!” Drew said as she scuttled over to the desk next to his in the muster hall, not that anyone else was in a rush to take it.

“Hello,” he said, glancing up from his paperwork.

Her suspicions quirked their antennae under her flicked, blonde hair. His posture was as tense as ever, but, this time, it looked like he was recoiling from two invisible claws encircling his shoulders, while he usually looked like an iron pole was strapped to his back. Their colleagues usually said the pole was somewhere else.

“What’re you doing?” she asked, shoving her bag under the table and taking a seat.

“Putting up with a distraction.” He looked at her again with an expression that was less sardonic than she’d like, but still enough for her laugh not to feel out of place. 

“Hey, Vincey!” Jason Finsbury strode up to them and slapped Vincent on the back. 

Vincent shuddered and ground his teeth. His back stung as though Jason’s hand had been carrying tiny flesh eating bacteria.

“You should’ve seen your face when he called you that!” Jason said and leant on the desk, in between Vincent and Drew.

“Um,” Drew said, mind darting around for anything to distract Jason from the glare bubbling on Vincent’s face. “Jason, can I please use your printer number? Mine doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Oh, anything for Nancy Drew,” he said, turning to her while she hid her grimace under her hand. He leant over her to type it into her computer, then led her over to the printer area. As she followed, she raised an eyebrow at Vincent, but he was already stabbing at the keypad of his phone.

While it rang, he tried to smooth the coils of the phone cord out, but it just made the black wire tumble across the grey desk. 

“Hello?” The voice on the other end was, thankfully, smooth and level.

“Hello, Lain Bellamy? It’s Vincent from Auckland City Police. I’m calling about-”

“Vincey! How are you?”

“Fine,” Vincent said. "I've organised a therapy appointment for you.”

"I'm not free," Lain said quickly. 

Vincent scrunched the hair at the base of his skull into his fist. "I haven't told you what time it is."

"I'm very popular."

"I'm sure."

“So...why don’t you give me the therapist’s number and leave it to me?”

“It says here you have a history of skipping court-ordered therapy appointments.”

“I do, don’t I?” Lain said indulgently.

“Do you need an escort?”

“Will it be you?”

Vincent hesitated. He wasn’t rostered on for that time. Not that he never worked overtime. “Yes.”

“Okay, and if I go crazy, it’ll be all your fault. Again,” Lain said in a sing-song voice.

“I don’t think that’s the general outcome of therapy.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’ll be at your house at five thirty on Thursday.”

“Maybe I will, too.”

Lain ended the call and dropped his mobile onto the seat of his couch, black and silver nestling into cream and gold. He stuffed a cushion into his face, then swiped it away and chucked it across the room. It missed the lampshade. The room was too big. Spacious, yet full of furniture, and he had bought none of it. They were tainted with his mother and father’s shopping excursions, back when they got along, before he was born. He wanted to burn all of it and squander his inheritance on new furniture, but then the backs of his eyes stung and he slumped face first onto the couch, instead.

~*~

Lain edged his way down a row of fold out seats, leaving one between him and the girl next to him, but not without giving her a charming smile, bringing a little, pinched, bashful one out of her.

“What do you…think of the lecturer?” he asked, his pause giving a clue as to what  _ he _ thought.

She laughed and winced, running a hand through her wavy hair, which fell back over half of her face like an auburn curtain. “She treats us like kids, doesn’t she?”

“Mmm.” He nodded, wrinkling his nose. “Without the clear explanation a kid would need.”

“And I was really looking forward to this paper.”

He looked down at the title on his course outline,  _ Family Law _ . He was sure he'd studied it before; maybe this semester was taking longer than usual.

“Is the textbook any better?” he asked.

“Haven't you looked at it, yet?” She laughed, then turned to the lecturer, who was clearing her throat and standing in front of her Power Point presentation. 

A clip-art picture of a heteronormative, nuclear family beamed out of the projection. Lain's groan was almost a growl.

“Now, class, can anyone tell me what we covered last time?” the lecturer said, her voice like a brisk walk through a park.

A few people shouted out the answer at once, their voices tangling together in their eagerness to get this charade over and done with. 

She pursed her lips. “Hands?”

A young man at the front put his hand up and said the answer at the same time. Her brow pointed in an arrow of condemnation at him, but she didn’t press the point, thank God, and started the lecture.

Todd rushed into the seminar room and scanned the rows of students, all of them slouching backwards and staring empty eyed at the front or crouching over notepads and scribbling in handwriting they wouldn’t be able to recognise later. He spotted Lain, sitting next to the girl and leaning into her ever so slightly as he watched the lecturer. 

Todd clambered over empty seats and edged around occupied ones, aiming for an empty one beside Lain, who turned and frowned at him. 

“Hey,” Todd whispered, diving into the seat and fishing around in his shoulder bag for his exercise book. 

Lain grimaced and waved at him, then turned back to the front.

They listened to the lecture in silence, while Todd ‘accidentally’ brushed his hand or arm against Lain’s every so often, in that slow, languorous way he had, like a snake edging towards something before it coils around it. Lain moved his arm further and further away each time, subsequently bringing him nearer to the girl on the other side of him, who did not pose such a threat.

At the end of the lecture, after a directive to read chapter twelve, which Todd underlined in the class outline and Lain instantly forgot, they all filed out of the class, Lain managing to stick by the girl and lose Todd at the same time.

When Todd finally caught up with them, the girl was saying she had a class to get to, which brought Todd malicious glee, despite the disappointed look on Lain’s face.

“Want to study in the commons?” Todd asked.

“Not really,” Lain sighed, but started walking towards the square, grey and glass building, anyway.

“There’s a party tonight,” Todd said, latching onto this window of opportunity, as he saw it. “At Chelsea’s house. You should come.”

Lain wrinkled his nose. “Chelsea? Really?”

“What’s wrong with Chelsea?”

“She’s a bit skeevy, isn’t she? And she called me a snob. I don’t think she even wants me there.”

“Oh well! We’ll just hang out. She probably won’t even notice you’re there.”

“No thanks,” Lain said as he gave the button for the pedestrian lights a good whack. “You know I only bother with parties like that when I’m desperate for sex.” When Todd opened his mouth, Lain held up a finger and said, “No,” firmly.

Todd heaved a great sigh, and gave the evils to a couple on the other side of the road who were holding hands, flaunting their barely attainable happiness in the faces of the ordinary folk. 

"What's the time?" Lain asked, scuffing the metal plate at the tip of his shoe against a ground-up piece of the footpath. 

"Five," Todd said. "We could have dinner after studying."

"I think I'm meant to be somewhere..." Lain frowned and pulled his phone out of his pocket, shielding it from Todd's view as he typed in his passcode. When he saw the calendar entry titled 'Vincey takes me to the loony bin' he squeaked. "Crap! I've gotta go home."

"What for?" Todd's shoulders slumped. 

"Got a date with a cop!" Lain waved Todd goodbye as he ran towards his carpark, dodging wandering students as he went. He didn't hear Todd's curse as he went. 

He sped all the way home, then frowned at the clock in his car. It only said 5:15. He screwed up his nose, then stomped up his gravel driveway to wait inside. 

Fifteen minutes later (exactly) Vincent's bony finger stabbed at Lain's intercom. 

Lain's voice crackled out into the street, "Coming!" and he sauntered back out and down the driveway. 

"I'm ready for my lobotomy!" he said when he'd slipped through the gap the automatic gate was making. He clicked a button in his pocket and it began to close again. 

"You're not getting a lobotomy." Vincent tried not to grimace. 

"You're right; they'll probably give me more drugs to flush down the toilet." Lain's flippant tone fooled neither of them; his hand clutched a green bar in his gate too tightly. 

Vincent's shoulders stiffened, then he walked to the police car parked in the driveway and opened the door. Lain followed him and hesitated. 

"I associate the back seat of cop cars with handcuffs and jail. Pavlovian conditioning. Do you want me to have another panic attack? I should sit in the front, with you.”

Vincent's eyes widened, he slammed the door shut and opened the front passenger door. As Lain got in, he stalked around to the drivers side and wrenched the door shut with a thud that shook the car. 

Lain's phone trilled, and he clicked it on. At the sight of the name, he threw the phone back into his lap and folded his arms. 

"Stupid exes," he growled, although he had no intention of ceasing his collection. 

Vincent said nothing for a while, staring out at the traffic lights ahead, until he ventured, “Have you been keeping out of trouble?” 

“No,” Lain said with a winsome smile. “The oven got too tempting, last night, and I ended up setting a rag on fire. There’s a big, charred stain on the kitchen tiles, now.”

“Don't burn your house down,” Vincent said. "It looks expensive."

Lain grinned, then bit his lip, green eyes perhaps a little too bright, like the numbers of a digital clock in the middle of the night. He was, just briefly, allowing himself to imagine his house and all its contents crackling, roaring, burning, bright orange and red and blue, and finally black, jagged, fine, and dusty.

"No," he said finally. "I should burn Ember's stuff, instead."

"How about you don't do anything illegal?"

"But how else will I make her pay for burning  _ my _ stuff?"

“Do you still have what she burnt?”

“No… I mailed it to someone.”

“Those ashes?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay… Any reason for that?”

“Yes.” Lain giggled a little, like balloons filled with noxious gas, his mouth clamping shut quickly, something uneasy and apprehensive about the wideness of his eyes and height of his eyebrows.

“You could have used that as evidence to get her arrested for property damage.”

“You didn’t mention that at the time…”

Vincent shrugged. “All I knew was that you were both burning things, and you were catatonic. How was I to know she’d stolen from you?”

“Fine, fine. But, come on. I want to get her back myself, not get the police to do it.”

“Why?”

“It’s just…more fun that way. More satisfying. And, therefore, more worthwhile as revenge.”

“Revenge may not be necessary…”

“Nothing’s _ necessary _ .”

“I think I am. I’m necessary for keeping crazies like you in line.”

"Oh, you think I'm in line, do you?"

“Look, Lain,” Vincent said, squeezing the steering wheel as he stopped at a red light. “Perhaps you could just let it be. How long have you been fighting with her, anyway?”

“Oh, God! Don’t even say such a thing!” Lain’s fingers curled as he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“How long has it been?" Vincent asked in a flat, direct tone, turning to stare straight into Lain’s eyes.

Lain met the eye contact with wide eyes and slightly pursed lips, until Vincent’s face bloomed red and his eyes slid to the traffic light like a fish swimming away from a hook.

“Not that long ago, a friend of mine told me it had been a year,” Lain said, grimacing at the memory of Yelizabeta’s remonstrations.

“If you dislike each other so much, wouldn’t you be happier if you ignored each other?”

“No,” Lain shook his head vigorously.

“Oh, God, you enjoy it.” Vincent rolled his eyes.

“Well! You probably enjoy conflicts with criminals!”

“I wouldn’t call it enjoyment. And I certainly don’t instigate it.”

“I don’t instigate it! She always starts it. I just get her back.”

“Thereby continuing it.”

“No. It could stop, there. But then she does something else.”

“I’m going to guess that she’d say the exact same thing.”

“But _ I’m _ right.”

A snicker burst out of Vincent’s tightly closed lips, and he lay his head on the steering wheel for a moment.

“I didn’t know you could laugh like that!” Lain said, grinning. “I want to be offended, but can’t!”

Vincent raised his head and sat back upright, straightening his collar a bit, then jumped as he noticed the light was green. 

“Well. It’s not that often I hear something _ quite _ so moronic,” he said as he accelerated. 

“It’s not moronic! I’m serious. She loves to fuck with me and I _ have _ to get her back.”

“I thought nothing was necessary,” Vincent said wryly.

“But some things are just better if they happen.”

“Right.”

“It just…has to be even! Everything has to be even!” Lain burst out, long eyelashes flicking back as his eyes widened, his fists clenching until his knuckles went whiter than Vincent’s.

Before Vincent could think of a response to that, not that he had one in him, he pulled up outside a brick house. The gold plaque on the matching brick gate said  _ Lantern Counseling.  _

“So!” Lain said, patting his thighs and making no move to undo his seatbelt. “What lame legal revenge plot do you have in mind?”

“Well,” Vincent paused, hands still on the steering wheel. “You could sneak into her house and put padlocks on all of her cupboards.”

“How is that legal?!” Lain spluttered. 

“I wanted to impress you,” Vincent said in a deadpan tone, then smirked at Lain’s cackle.

“It’s brilliant! She won’t be able to get her makeup, or her brush, or her clothes, or her food… Oh, God, I’m doing it!” Lain said, slapping his thighs again, making his phone dance on his lap. “Thanks for the idea!”

“I gave you no idea,” Vincent said pointedly, then unbuckled his seatbelt. "Come on."

He got out of the car while Lain followed, pouting and dragging his feet across the smooth concrete of the driveway. The reception desk was glazed, coppery wood and cream, and the receptionist smiled at Vincent even though he was almost scowling. He told her Lain had arrived, then gestured for Lain to sit in the waiting area. 

Lain hesitated, chewing the inside of his lip, then swiped a piece of paper off the counter and scribbled his phone number onto it. He pressed it to Vincent's chest, where a spot of heat bloomed, even through his stab proof vest. 

"Check that I'm okay, tonight," Lain said. 

Vincent wanted to make a joke about him not getting a lobotomy, but the hand that held the paper was shaking, and Lain's green eyes were swimming. So he took the paper. He'd already forfeited the 'it's not my job' excuse when he'd agreed to escort him. 

He nodded slightly, while Lain gulped bile back down his throat and forced a smile. Then they separated, Lain to the waiting area and Vincent back outside, into air that seemed thinner and cooler. 

With a start, he sprinted back to the car. Triangles of glass clung to the front passenger window, while more sat on the seat and floor, points digging into the grey coverings. He set his jaw and searched the car, but nothing was missing. 

~*~

Lain was in Ember’s house with a backpack full of combination padlocks. The predicted bottle of pills was safely stowed in his bathroom drain, but his heart still ached with each rapid thud. 

His shoes had no soles, so made no scuff or print against the light turquoise bathroom tiles, and his gloves left no print on the cabinet as he knelt down and closed the doors. He pulled a padlock out of the bag and hooked it around the handles. Thank God she hadn’t changed them to doorknob-style ones, but even if she had, he would’ve found something to make this trip worthwhile. She had amazing hairspray and would never tell him where she bought it.

He twirled the combination to ‘4 – 4 – 4’, then set about padlocking the drawers together. Sure, with persistence she’d be able to open the top drawer, but to open the other two drawers, she’d need to take the whole set out of their slots and twist them around like a fan of colour swatches.

When he stood up, he checked himself briefly in the mirror, choking back a giggle at his black skivvy, black skinny jeans combination. Only his eyes and skin pigmentation held any colour, and they were brighter than ever, rivalling the gilded frame of the mirror. He pulled a marker out of the bag and drew two angry eyebrows pointing sharply down the brow of the serene mermaid perched at the top of the mirror, making her languid smile look demonic.

“Lain, what are you doing?” came an exasperated sigh from the doorway, and Lain whirled around to face it.

Qianbei was leaning against the bathroom doorway in a white singlet and periwinkle blue pyjama bottoms that covered half his long feet, his bleached white hair sticking up slightly on one side.

“You were _ home _ ? You were so quiet!” Lain exclaimed, backing up, his back slamming into the shower door.

“I was asleep,” Qianbei said. “Been working on a big project, and finally got a chance to rest.”

“Oh.” Lain tried to regain his composure, now using the shower door to steady himself. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

“Don’t worry. Just please take the padlocks off the cabinets and leave, lah.”

Lain shook his head, looking away from those big, pleading eyes and taking a deep breath.

“I’ll leave,” he said airily. “Tell Ember the combination is the number of poems she burnt, times three.”

And, with that, he flew past Qianbei, giving his waist a squeeze as he went, and vaulted out the window he had come in through, landing in a bed of lavender. As he got up, he let his shoes scuff the flowers a little, then capered off to his car, not worrying about the backpack full of padlocks he’d left behind.

Qianbei slumped, almost melding into the doorframe, and rubbed his eyes, then trudged off to his bedroom to get his mobile phone. He sent Ember a text saying, “How many poems did you burn?” then jumped as his phone started ringing instantly.

“Hel-“ he started to answer, but Ember cut him off.

“What the fuck did he do?” He could hear the anger grinding in her voice, and stifled his laugh.

“He put padlocks on our bathroom cabinets and left a bag of more padlocks on the floor when I caught him,” he said with calm exasperation. “Apparently the combination is however many poems you burnt, times three.”

“Asshole,” she spat down the phone. “Who does that?”

“Who burns someone’s poems?”

“They weren’t his poems. They were his dad’s.”

“His _ dad’s _ ?” Qianbei repeated, limbs slackening with his shock, and he sat down on the bed. “Didn’t you say he was dead, ah?”

“Yeah, he used to write poetry and hide them under his bed and Lain would sneak into his room and read them.” At least she sounded guilty, even if she then said, “I stand by my actions.”

“Your _ awful _ actions,” Qianbei said, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe he'll burn our beautiful house down.”

“It’s not our house - not with our massive mortgage,” she said sullenly.

“We’d still owe, even if the house burnt down,” he said calmly, but with a sigh. “Look, just be careful, ah? At least be less mean.”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “But you know it’s ‘cause he burnt our engagement party invitations, don’t you?”

“Don’t worry, lah. The new ones are arriving tomorrow. Now, how many poems did you burn? I want to wash my face.”

“Well! As much as I care about your perfect complexion, I really don’t know! I just grabbed a few.”

“Oh, Ember. Okay. I’ll just accumulate grease until you manage to break into our cabinets or buy us some new cleanser.”

“Okay,” she said, finally sounding remorseful. “I’m sorry. I won’t stay out too late tonight.”

“It’s fine, sweetie,” he said, his voice as soft as the pillow he sunk his head onto. “I love you.”

“I love you, too!” she chirped, overloud voice crackling through the earpiece of his old phone.

He hung up and let the mobile fall onto his bedside cabinet, thankfully unpadlocked, though it did have a small scratch in its carved border, evidence of another incident. He blew his hair out of his face and rolled onto his back, staring at the white ceiling and hoping they’d tire themselves out before they killed each other. 

~*~

When Lain got back home, a text message was waiting. 

"No lobotomy?"

He texted back, “Nope, still crazy enough to padlock someone's cupboards. Got caught."

Vincent merely replied, “Amateur. Not that I know what you’re talking about.”

Both considered calling the other, but neither did. The spectre of the conversation that would have been hung around their ears and necks, cold and tickling against their warm skin, making no couch, desk or bed as comfortable as they should have been. Both were left with a wasted night and textbooks that, feeling the gaze of the distracted, had decided to close their meanings within the glue and string binding them together, their words left as arbitrary squiggles on their pages.


	3. Chapter 3

Vincent stared at the still-flickering paper bag, half crumbled and black, sitting on his apartment doorstep. Only the smell of ash wafted from it, no excrement. He stamped on whatever it was, then jumped back. A lump of heat scorched right through the worn sole of his shoe. 

He put his keys in his pocket and walked onto the balcony opposite his front door, and fished around for a cigarette and his lighter.

Now. Let’s get one thing straight. Vincent wasn’t addicted to anything, let alone cigarettes. He had far too much self-control for that. Instead, they were something he found useful, from time to time, but never necessary. At this moment, one seemed like a good idea, for his brain was starting to crackle like roman candles. And not in a good way, like after a good kiss (that wasn’t a feeling he knew anything about, anyway). 

The fireworks' screams turned to quails as the smoke filled his lungs and he slumped against the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold metal through his thin, black shirt. It was too dark to see the smoke that exited his mouth, but it floated upwards and into the black-blue sky.

He stubbed out the cigarette when it was only halfway burnt, just to show himself that he could, and flicked it into the rubbish bin in the corner of the balcony. When he went back into the hallway, the pile of ash and paper was still there. He unlocked his door and went inside for a plastic bag to shove the mess into. As he was doing so, ignoring the black stains on his fingers, he touched something hard and still hot. Flicking the ash away from around it, he found a plain gold ring, slightly melted, with flecks of ash swimming in its surface like dinghies. He shifted some of the unscathed paper underneath it and carried it inside, the plastic bag full of burnt paper swinging from a pinky.

It was after midnight, so he guessed Lain was either sleeping or doing something unwholesome, but Vincent decided this was more important. 

After two rings, Lain’s voice chirped down the phone, “Why, hello there, Vincey! To what do I owe this night time pleasure?”

“Wow, don’t you get tired? Or did you sleep in until lunchtime, yesterday?” Vincent said as if it were a bad thing that Lain had answered.

“I haven’t slept in a couple of days, actually!” Lain said. “I finished three small essays that’re due next week! It’s not often I get time to proofread! Not that they probably need it. They’re _ amazing _ !” Vincent could almost hear Lain’s wild gesticulations.

“Good for you, I guess,” Vincent said uneasily.

“You didn’t just call me to congratulate me on my essays, did you? Because that would be a bit telepathic, and I don’t think we’re quite there, yet!”

“No, no… Uh, I found an interesting package on my doorstep. It was burning.”

Lain’s gasp sounded like the air he was taking in was full of helium. Then he growled, and said, “Fucking Ember! What the fuck is wrong with her?”

“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but I am assuming it’s her.”

“Sounds like a conclusion to me!”

“I’m also entertaining the idea that it’s you, so no.”

“Oh, Vincey! How could you think I would do something like that? I mean, to you.”

“You’re full of surprises, Lain. But…what I really want to ask is… Are you missing a ring? Because that was what was in the package. A plain gold ring.”

“Seems like a common thing, but I’ll check the jewellery boxes,” Lain said, with rapid, loud footsteps up his stairs, and the fireworks almost started going off in Vincent’s head again.

“Boxes. You have boxes of jewellery.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of family heirlooms?" Lain flung himself into one of his spare rooms. "And I _ know _ you give crap all about what you wear. You know, I should buy you a piece of jewellery and force you to wear it.”

Vincent winced and clenched his fist against his kitchen counter, rubbing it into the bumpy surface. “Stop talking, Lain, and look through your jewellery.”

“I _ am _ looking, see?” Lain swung a necklace in front of his phone's mouthpiece. A little jingle came through the phone, and, though it was soft, it felt like it was ringing in Vincent’s eardrum. Or inside his brain.

The ring was cooling and hardening, the pieces of ash still stuck in its lumpy surface.

“It seems to be a plain gold band. Maybe a wedding ring?” Vincent said.

“Well! There’s only one thing that could be…” Lain’s jovial tone trailed off as his eyes fell on a blue velvet ring box, tipped on its side, it's mouth gaping open and empty. Then all Vincent could hear was jingling, scratching noises, before, “ _ What?! _ ” then a crash as Lain dropped the phone.

“Lain…?” Vincent said. He went and sat down on his couch, keeping his phone to his ear, and rested his head in his free hand.

When he heard Lain’s voice again, it sounded far away, and was accompanied by the sound of the ring box snapping closed. “What the fuck does that bitch have against my father?!” Then a strangled roar that twisted and morphed into a shriek, a few stomps, and his voice was right in Vincent’s ear, again. “My father’s wedding ring is gone! My father’s wedding ring is gone!”

“Okay, Lain, calm down,” Vincent said, swallowing hard.

“No!” Lain shrieked, and Vincent held the phone away from his ear a bit. “How – what – ngeigh!”

“Look. Don’t do anything. Have a glass of water and sit down. I’ll come over and bring the ring, and we can talk about this.”

“Um – um – okay.” A few more stomps, a growl, and an innocent jewelry box was kicked across the floor.

“I’m going to hang up the phone, now, and drive to your place. I’ll be there shortly.” 

“Thank you.” Lain’s voice sounded empty and faraway, like he was calling down a drain and not a phone.

“Don’t do anything dangerous or stupid. Just – don’t do anything.”

Vincent put the ring in a clean plastic bag and wrapped the handles around his hand twice, the ring clenched in his fist, then made his way through the corridor, down the fire escape and into the carpark.

The streets were almost devoid of cars, yet the drive felt an hour long, and the streetlights all stared at him with glowing eyes hooded with metal. He still had the plastic bag containing the ring in his hand, clamped against the steering wheel. The plastic was forming ridges and creases that turned its translucent surface white.

He pulled up outside the iron gates he remembered from that first night, their spikes like claws threatening to steal him. After wrenching himself out of the car, he walked up to the intercom to one side of the gates, set into the wall like an afterthought, the pattern in the stone not yielding to the metal box.

He pushed the large button, glowing green beside the speaker, and said, “It’s Vincent.”

Shortly after, the speaker crackled with, “Come in!” and the gates squealed and started to open slowly, one a bit slower than the other, as though they were unsure about letting him in. He squeezed through when it was open just enough for his skinny body, and walked up the driveway and toward the large front door, flanked by two stone pillars that, far from guarding it, looked like they were conspiring to crumble in front of it, taking the climbing foliage that traced their carvings with them.

As he climbed the steps leading to the door, it opened and orange light fanned out over the doorstep, Lain's silhouette standing in the middle.

“I trust you took my advice,” Vincent said when he reached him.

Lain nodded, scrunched his bagged eyes closed, then opened them. “I did, mostly. Just…ignore the broken things.”

“Right.” Vincent followed Lain into the house and looked around, first noticing how large just the entryhall was, then staring at the umbrella lying on the floor and frowning. It's silver handle had been smashed against the parquet floor not long ago. 

Lain led him into an adjacent living area, which was free of debris, though Vincent couldn’t help noticing the fire extinguisher by the door. Or the three shelves of books that reached right to the ceiling. 

“So,” Lain said, gesturing for Vincent to sit on a three-seater couch by the bookshelves. Vincent did, and was startled by how comfortable it was, though it couldn't force his spine into a relaxed position. 

Lain didn’t sit down, instead pacing in front of Vincent, until Vincent snapped, “Sit down,” and made to pull at his sleeve, hand jolting back when it touched the skin of his hand, instead.

Lain sat down heavily, making the soft couch sag and tip the two of them into each other, then sat upright, back as rigid as Vincent’s and fingers making a claw around his jumping knee.

“Do you want to see the ring?” Vincent asked, leaving out any emotion from his voice, and Lain looked at him in surprise.

Lain thought about it for a moment, then said, “Yes, I’ll have to see it.”

Vincent extended his hand to him and unfolded the stretched plastic bag to reveal the equally mutated ring. Lain's limbs locked at sharp angles as a painful rage shot through them, his teeth clenching and his breaths seething through him like vapour.

He shot upright and darted into another room, with Vincent following him. But he only grabbed the phone on the kitchen bench, stepping gracefully over the broken glass and water spread over the tiles (Vincent realised his advice to get a glass of water may not have been wise).

“Are you sure you should be calling her?” Vincent asked, and Lain just stared at him, wide eyed, then with a growl started dialling a number from memory.

Lain continued to stare at Vincent as the phone rang in his ear, body tensed like a cat ready to pounce, gripping the phone with one hand and the kitchen counter with the other. Vincent still held onto the ring in its plastic bag, uneasy in his grasp, as though it wanted to tumble onto the floor and join the broken glass and water. But Lain, quite rightly, knew that it was safe where it was.

“What?” Ember’s voice sliced through the phone, sharpened on her unease.

“You know what,” Lain said, softer and deeper than Vincent had fancied him capable of.

“No. Seriously. Why are you calling me?”

“You – you – how can you expect – how could you do – what the hell were you thinking?!”

“When? What did I do? Are you having another hallucination?” Her voice wasn’t accusatory, just firm.

“No! Unless Vincey’s a hallucination, too. Come _ on _ ! I know it was you. Who else would it have been?”

“Maybe I could guess if you’d tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to have done!”

“My father’s wedding ring, sitting on Vincey’s doorstep, burning and _ melting _ .”

“Okay, I know I’ve pulled some crap, but that’s out of my range.”

“Oh, really? You burnt his poems! I think it’s exactly the sort of thing you’d do!”

“I – didn’t burn them. I burnt scraps of paper and hid the poems in between your matresses.”

“What?!”

“Go check!” she commanded, and he hesitated, stuck in his tight position at the counter, limbs stiffening.

Then he raced upstairs, phone still clutched in his hands like a relayer’s baton. Vincent strode quickly after him, still holding the ring, its shape threatening to embed itself into his hand. When Lain ran into his bedroom, Vincent stopped at the door as though a force field had jolted him back, then gulped and entered.

Lain threw the phone to the floor and knelt down by the bed, then yanked the blankets and duvet away from the edge, the soft material slipping through his fingers. Frustration curdled in his joints. Then he pulled the top mattress up and, upon sighting a rectangle of white at the far end, disappeared between the two mattresses to retrieve it. Vincent stared at his kicking legs sticking out of the bed, wondering if he should yank him out and give him a sensible knock around the ears. Then again, no sense ever came from those knocks, if his experience was representative.

Lain emerged from the mattresses, holding the crumpled paper with black, scrawling writing all over it, and muttered, “Is this a trick?” Then he reached for the phone, discarded on the floor, and said, “If it wasn’t you, then who did it?”

“How should I know?” Ember said. “Maybe you pissed off one too many exes, and that’s why they stuck it on your new boyfriend’s doorstep.”

“Shut up.” Lain clenched his free hand in his hair.

“Look, Lain. I’m sorry this happened to you, but it seriously wasn’t me, and you’re clearly all hysterical and therefore not even worth reasoning with, and I’m out with friends and they’re probably wondering where the hell I am, so call me when you can think straight. Go sleep or something.”

At the sound of the dial tone, Lain winced as if it were a siren, then reluctantly hung up.

“So?” Vincent said, not trusting any other words.

“She says it wasn’t her, and she’s proven she’s not as diabolical as previously thought, _ or _ she’s even more diabolical than I imagined and this is all some evil trick and it really _ was _ her.” Lain’s mind was straying to the latter, and Vincent could see that in his wide eyes.

“Let’s keep an open mind, then,” Vincent said. “What did you find under your bed?”

“My dad’s poetry that she pretended to burn.” Lain stared at the pieces of paper his fist was crumpling. He relaxed his grip on them and smoothed them against his chest. “He’s dead. That’s why this is…rather…unbearable.” His mouth turned downwards and he took an exaggerated gulp.

“Oh.” Vincent tried to keep the emotion out of his voice without sounding cold. “I suppose I’d be pretty mad if someone burnt something from my dead mother.”

“Poor Vincey,” Lain said, voice stripped thin and cracking a little. He stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, and even though the skin underneath became warm and uncomfortable, Vincent let it happen. Lain stared at the hand while Vincent stared at Lain’s feet, concentrating on how the slight ribbing of his socks curved around his toes.

“I’ll help you clean up,” Vincent said, “and then you need to go to bed.”

“I’m not tired. I don’t need sleep. I have to find out who…” Perhaps Lain had used up too many words, before, for he had run out. His mind was too busy racing around other things to function verbally.

“Sleep, first,” Vincent said firmly. “We’ll file a police report in the morning.”

Lain took a deep, rattling breath, nodded, and removed his hand from Vincent’s shoulder. They walked downstairs to the entryhall, starting with the broken umbrella, and made their way through the broken glass and water in the kitchen, the overturned desk and smashed ornaments in the study, and back to the dissected bed. Vincent tucked the sheets tightly in between the mattresses, as though something far more important had come loose.


	4. Chapter 4

Lain woke up the next morning after bright red and yellow dreams that he couldn’t remember properly. A slight creak in the roof made him swing around with an imaginary golf club. His mind darted from one end of itself to the other. At least he was now feeling uncomfortable about this.

When he called Vincent at 10am, he got a weary reply of, “That wasn’t much sleep.”

“I know. But! I’m feeling a bit better,” Lain said, rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet until he fell against the kitchen counter.

“Okay. That’s good. We’ll go down to the police station before my shift starts and report your case.”

“Why not now?” Lain’s long, drawn out whine surprisingly comforted Vincent.

“I don’t want to go there twice today. It’s a waste of time.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll drive you there.”

“I don’t need you to drive me anywhere,” Vincent snapped, then screwed up his face and sunk his forehead into his palm.

“Fine then! I’ll go by myself!” Lain shouted and hung up the phone before Vincent could apologise or make it worse or whatever the hell else he might have done.

Lain stormed the length of the house a couple of times, whacking at furniture that seemed to be looking at him distastefully, then marched upstairs and into the shower to get ready for university.

~*~

“Oh my God!” Yelizabeta said when he told her what had happened, before she could bury her head in her psychology textbook. “That doesn’t _ sound _ like Ember.”

“I know,” Lain said weakly, sitting forwards and leaning against the desk in the information commons. “I don’t know who it _ would _ be and I’m scared.”

She placed a hand on his jumping knee, and it mellowed to a slight vibrate. “Did you,” she paused, “consider Vincent?”

“Consider him how?” He blinked at her, though his stomach started to tumble.

“Consider that he might be the culprit,” she almost whispered, afraid to say it at all.

Lain shook his head vigorously, mouth tightening, eyes widening. “He’s not like that at all.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, balking at his expression. “Just be careful. You don't know him well.”

“I’m very careful,” he said, then added when she raised an eyebrow, “in that regard.”

“Perhaps...” she said, “but, look. It’ll be alright. The police’ll be able to find out who did it.”

“I _ have _ to know,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s eating my brain.”

“How about we go together to the police station?” She patted his arm. “My last class finishes at five.”

“Thanks,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and sinking forwards into a hug. Her clothes were always soft, and the pastel colours made him feel slightly calmer. Or it was Pavlovian conditioning. 

~*~

Lain and Yelizabeta walked into the police station, Lain’s heartbeat quickening as he passed through the glass doors, remembering those hard, grey, immovable bars that lay inside. Yelizabeta walked straight up to the counter across the foyer, as though she was the one who had been here before. He followed her and stared straight ahead at the constable behind the counter, ignoring everything else in the room as though they were in an off-white tunnel that stretched from door to counter.

“My friend, here,” Yelizabeta gestured to Lain, “has to report some stolen and damaged property.”

She flicked at his pocket and he pulled out the ring, still in the plastic bag. He let her take it and show it to the constable, explaining everything that had happened as though she had been present for all of it, while Lain leant against the grey counter as though he wasn’t present for this.

“Hey!” an unfamiliar voice called out and a hand tapped lightly on his arm. “You’re the Vincey guy, aren’t you?”

Lain almost jumped as he turned to the speaker. It was Jason, his grin stretched over a five o clock shadow. 

“Do I know you?” Lain asked politely.

“Probably not, but I remember you! From that court appearance! You called him Vincey and he just _ took it _ .”

Jason's expression was a little too malicious for Lain’s taste. He frowned at him for a moment, sinking further into the counter, then turned away and pretend to be interested in what Yelizabeta was saying. 

“You know what I heard?" A female constable joined Jason. "I heard he put his own _ father _ in jail.”

"That doesn't surprise me."

Lain stiffened, then slotted into Yelizabeta's side. 

“It’s not nice to gossip about people," he said.

Though the two constables heard, they ignored him and kept walking across the room; their conversation had turned to how rude Vincent was on query calls. 

Lain batted Yelizabeta's arm. “I want to leave.”

“Um, have you forgotten why we’re here?” she asked, looking at him with trepidation. 

“Oh, Right. Sorry,” he said half-repentantly and swayed against her arm.

“It’s alright,” she said. “You didn’t even start a fight or anything.”

He gasped, “I should’ve!” and pushed away from the counter, but she grabbed his elbow and dug her nails in for want of strength.

“No,” she said forcefully, before turning back to the constable behind the counter.

~*~

“Hey, Nancy Drew,” Jason said, flicking a pen at her as he went past in the corridor. She caught it as it fell down, poking out her tongue and pocketing it. “I saw Vincey’s boyfriend, today.”

She started and stared at him, her brow denting in the middle. He just laughed and carried on past her towards the changing rooms.

At the sight of his retreating back, covered in stab-resistant blue, she blurted out, “I’m sure you were brimming with jealousy!” before scuttling off towards the carpark, feeling like a pathetic, lovesick little girl prodding a Ken doll and wondering why it wouldn’t stick out its stiff, plastic arms and hug her. 

“Hey, Drew,” Santha said, falling into step with her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Looks like we’re together, tonight.”

Drew grinned at her and clapped her hands. And she wasn’t just being politely enthusiastic. Vincent’s eyes had been puffy and bagged and weren’t even making eye contact with the floor. Some other poor fool would put up with that scowl for a night, and then complain about having to work with him to Sergeant Pilkins, thereby reinforcing the fact that Drew was the only one who could put up with being paired with him. Things always worked out.

“How’s Marko?” Drew asked, half-skipping towards the van in the corner of the car park.

“Good,” Santha said. “He’s a bit friendlier, these days.” She unlocked the van and hopped in, Drew clambering into the passenger side and peering over the back of her seat.

She poked her fingers through the mesh separating her from the German Shepherd in the back, giving him a little wave. He stood up, staring from her to the back doors, tongue lolling out, every hair seeming to stretch towards the exit.

“Not yet, Marko!” Drew said. “No bad guys out there!”

~*~

Lain flexed his fingers in and out of a fist shape, as though each one was looking for a ring to replace the one that was now in police custody, thanks to Yelizabeta. Perhaps Vincent could bring it back for him. Could – maybe. Would – a big, hard, diamond ‘no’, reflected back at him through a hundred cuts.

In fact, the list of things Vincent would do for him could probably fit on his bony pinkie, at that moment in time. Lain’s mutual agitation with him, however, had evaporated into concern, and it hung in the air, fogging up his vision and making him stub his toe on the coffee table. Actually, that was probably because he’d run past it to get to his mobile. 

“Hi, Lisa,” he said as he answered the phone, sinking himself onto the nearest couch.

“Hi!” she said in a sing song voice. “Are you busy?”

“No,” he said. “Did you want to come over?”

“Yeah! I’ll be there in fifteen minutes!” The dial tone suddenly replaced her voice.

He heaved himself off the couch and went up to his bedroom to sift through his wardrobe. A black shirt with ruffles edged in bright blue caught his eye, but he wasn’t sure she’d like it, so he settled on a navy shirt with white hearts on it. He changed out of his forest green skivvy and into the shirt, leaving on his Gucci pants, because she definitely liked those.

Five minutes left. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled Vincent’s number, then listened to the pre-set answer-phone message. Vincent hadn't even recorded his name. 

“Hi Vincey,” he said after the beep. “I know we’re supposed to be grumpy with each other or something, though I’m not mad anymore and I’m not sure why I was before and I’m actually kind of sorry… But! I ran into a workmate of yours the other day, and…he indulged in some personal gossip about you. I wanted to talk about it with you. So come over to my house. If you want. Have a good night. Bye!”

He glared at his phone as though it was conspiring against him and hadn't tried hard enough to make Vincent’s phone ring. At a buzz from the intercom, he threw the phone on his bedside table and darted downstairs to let Lisa in.

~*~

“I can’t believe he blamed me,” Ember muttered into her potato and leek soup, stirring it more than eating it, the light, murky mush and liquid starting to blur into a whirlpool.

Qianbei reached out a hand to still hers, giving the soup a reprieve. “Can you see why, though?”

“No! I’m not evil!” She stared at him with wide eyes that almost looked sad, her brow drooping downwards.

“Does he know that?” he asked softly.

She paused. “I would think so.”

“Remember when you put dirt in his shampoo? And burnt his curtains?”

“He burnt my curtains way before I did that. Besides! Nothing I’ve done has been emotionally scarring.”

He nodded. “It was a pretty horrible thing to do. Maybe you should try to find out who actually did it. Aren’t you worried? Or at least curious?”

“I have more pressing matters at hand! He’s wronged me twice, now, so I need to get him back double!” She banged her fist against the table like a medieval king, then started eating her soup like it had only just been placed in front of her.

“Okay.” Qianbei ran a finger along his bleached hair, perfecting the line of his fringe. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

~*~

Vincent buzzed at Lain’s intercom, staring at the driveway and chewing on the inside of his lip. It was the only thing he'd managed to chew on since Lain's text. 

“Come in!” Lain half-sang through the intercom, and the gates creaked open asynchronously.

Vincent edged in between the gates and walked up to meet Lain at his doorstep. He was wearing the shirt with the ruffles, the jabot twining its blue edges down his chest. Vincent couldn’t tell whether it was supposed to be modern or old-fashioned.

“So.” He followed Lain inside. “I hear I’m a hot topic for gossip, these days.”

"Boiling." Lain led Vincent into the living room. “I wanted to give you a chance to tell your side of the story, or deny it, or something. And, anyway, it’s quite personal, so I didn’t want to know something like that about you without you knowing that I knew.”

“Aren’t you an upstanding citizen.” Vincent took the seat Lain offered him. 

“Oh, you’re so mean,” Lain said cheerfully, sitting down next to him, but not too close. Vincent looked at Lain expectantly, and, yes, a little impatiently, so Lain took a deep breath and said, “Apparently, you got your father arrested and put in jail.”

Vincent’s face stiffened and tightened, his eyes lancing through his knees, to the floor. His deadpan, “Oh. That,” was marred by a little shake.

Lain took this to mean that it was true, so said, “You don’t have to elaborate if you don’t want… But now you know that I know.”

“My father abused my mother and I,” Vincent said suddenly, surprising both Lain and himself. “Mostly my mother. He killed her when I was a teenager and I helped the police convict him. He’s still in jail. I don’t visit him, ever.”

Lain let out a mix between a cry and a whine, and lunged forward, almost suffocating Vincent with a hug.

“You don’t…have to do that,” Vincent said awkwardly, patting Lain on the back with a hand like a block of wood.

“I’m so sorry!” Lain’s words were muffled by Vincent’s shoulder and were accompanied by warm, vibrating breath. Then he sat up straight, still clutching Vincent’s arms, and said, “Your workmate really is evil!”

“He doesn’t know that much, I’m sure,” Vincent said, glad for the slight change in subject and reduction in touching.

“He’s still evil,” Lain said, and Vincent nodded.

Lain let go of Vincent slowly, fingers dripping off his arms, and sat back in the couch, taking deep breaths. He blinked a few times, but that only dislodged a tear that had been dancing in his eye and sent it frolicking down his cheek. It could dry there – rubbing only made things puffy and red.

“Well, then,” he said, taking a glance at Vincent, who was staring fixedly at his knees. “This isn’t very even, so I’m going to tell you something about my parents.”

“Okay,” Vincent said, not bothering to argue or tell him he didn’t mind. Perhaps he even cared a bit.

“My parents divorced when I was twelve because my mother had been having an affair with this _ asshole _ who only cared about selling kitchen appliances. Dad’s depression got worse, I fell out with Mum because I tried to break her and whatshisface up, and lived with Dad full time while he pined after my mum. He killed himself - by overdose - when I was eighteen, and I have no contact with my mum. Apart from trying to burn her house down. That was years ago, and I was a bit of a mess, so I failed miserably!”

He shrugged and let his hands slap against the couch, while Vincent blinked at him like a goldfish.

“I had no idea it was going to be that even,” he said. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Thanks,” Lain said, staring Vincent in the eyes with an earnest expression that did not allow him to break the eye contact with his usual haste.

When the eye contact finally did slip, to a clearly fascinating pair of knees, to a lampshade that looked like it needed dusting, they relaxed, limbs sinking into the couch, which suddenly made it clear that they had been tensing. Vincent wondered if he was sick; that emotional voyage had been too rough for him. Lain decided he definitely had to sleep that night, for a quickened heartbeat was never a good sign.

“May I have a glass of water?” Vincent asked, though he was reluctant to break the silence.

“Certainly, my dear guest.” Lain patted his wrist, a fingertip just grazing the bare skin of his hand, and left for the kitchen.

His nonchalance may seem inappropriate. Vincent incorrectly supposed that, since Lain was emotionally overwrought ninety per cent of the time, the conversation had ceased to faze him, and that this situation was not a big deal to him.

~*~

Drew, on the other hand, did not have dead or estranged parents, and they were very nice and normal. She knew to count herself lucky.

Whenever she visited, she liked to look through the old photo albums, at pictures of herself with ringlets, in frilly dresses with peter-pan collars, her dad with hair and neon shorts, and her mum with short hair and in sundresses.

“You were so cute,” her mum said, leaning over the squashy, floral couch, her grey hair tickling Drew’s shoulder and reminding her of how much time had passed since the photos.

“I can’t believe I’m twenty two!” she said, closing the album with a thud.

“You’re not that old, dear. And you’ve done very well for yourself, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she conceded.

“And your biological clock won’t start ticking for a while, anyway.” 

“Mum!" Drew scooted down the couch. "I’m not worried about that!”

“Well, good, because you’re a pretty girl and you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Her mum beamed at her. 

“I’m seriously not worried about finding anyone, ever.”

“What about at work? Are there any nice young men you like there?”

Drew fought to keep her blush down, like swallowing bile when vomit is threatening to erupt.

“Oh, please tell me! Don’t be embarrassed! I can help you.” Her mum sat next to her and clutched her tea towel in her fists. 

“It’s fine,” Drew said shortly. “You probably wouldn’t even like him, anyway.”

“I’ll be fine with whoever you choose, dear.”

“One day, I’ll make you eat those words,” she said, screwing up her face at her mum.

“Oh, really!” Her mum flicked at her with the tea towel and stood up.

As she made her way back into the kitchen, Drew called after her, “Don’t talk to Dad about it!”

“About what?” her dad called back, emerging in the kitchen doorway with a teasing grin.

“Drew’s got herself a little boyfriend,” her mum said, grinning cheekily.

Drew groaned. “I do not! I’m pretty sure he’s asexual, anyway!”

They both laughed uneasily and gave her a look that managed to be confused and wiser-than-thou at the same time, making her regret what she’d said even more.


	5. Chapter 5

Ember fell head-first through Lain’s second floor window, landing in a tangle on the soft carpet. She scrambled the right way around and crouched like a cat, head swinging this way and that, staring around her at the dark room. It was full of paintings in gilt frames, from the days when he decided that no month should go by without him changing every painting in the house. He had eventually just put them on rotation, because even he got tired of that much art shopping. Perhaps the same thing would happen to his dating; there were only so many people in the world. 

She jumped out of her crouch and to her feet in one swift move, and tip-toed to the door like she hadn’t just seen him pull out of his driveway. The door opened with a creak, which took away her fear of making her own noise. Out in the dim hallway, she stared around, trying to remember which way to the room that held his old jewellery. Where the infamous ring would’ve been.

The room eventually revealed itself through trial and error, and she darted straight for the wooden jewellery box sitting on the nightstand. But her eyes ran away to the other furniture in the room. That rose patterned material! That baroque carving! An antique wardrobe that was probably empty! One day, she’d man an operation to steal it all. Qianbei would help out if she described that lampshade to him, standing two metres high, bronze painted onto the wood.

But that would be impossible today, for she was not quite that strong. Instead, she forced her attention back to the jewellery box, unfortunately an impressive piece itself, half a metre tall, with swans painted onto its glass surface. There was a little scratch by the hook that held its lid shut. She imagined a black-clad figure wrenching it open to get the ring, and, later, a fire-breathing Lain clawing at it as though being more angry and ferocious would make the ring still be in there, lying intact amongst the other oh-so-sentimental pieces.

She pulled it open with far more care, but hot blood started to pump through her when she looked at all that gold and silver and pearl and ruby sparkling before her, somehow finding light to reflect in the dark room. Her hand clenched around a bunch of them, and they just felt like cold lumps, which made it a little easier to fling them to the floor. That violent movement and the crack of the beads as they bounced up and hit the walls made it even easier, and she flung the rest across the room.

Next, she turned to the jewelry box. She considered stealing it, but decided on a more fleeting form of fun, pulling her matchbox out of her pocket.

~*~

Vincent stared at the mess of pearls, gold, silver, jewels, glass, wood and ash on the carpet, all covered with a white powder. A fire extinguisher lay to the side, lolling back and watching the scene. In the middle, lay a note, “ This is what I would’ve done.” He turned to Lain, who was standing next to him and looking at him expectantly.

“What should I do?” Lain asked, not a hapless call for help, but a fervent request for suggestions.

“You should call the police,” Vincent said.

“You’re the police, and I called you,” Lain said matter-of-factly.

Vincent sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t know. This seems kind of never-ending, doesn’t it?”

Lain couldn’t quite catch the smile that twisted its way onto his face and stuck there for a moment. Vincent rolled his eyes and stomped out of the room.

~*~

Lain drove Vincent to work, that night, mostly because he was procrastinating on writing a 5,000 word assignment, and because Vincent had started to doze on the couch while pretending to read one of Lain’s old textbooks.

“I’m sorry I keep calling you over. If you’re tired, you can say no,” Lain said.

“I know that,” Vincent snapped, staring out the window, tensing every time Lain drove too close to another car.

When they pulled up outside the police station, Lain got out, too, under the pretence of politeness, but really he wanted to see Jason again and maybe pick a fight with him. Vincent cringed and hoped he wouldn’t walk too far into the building with him, feeling like a schoolchild being led by his mother to the gate, the other children giggling as she smudged her lipstick on his cheek.

A sunny-haired figure galloped up to them, grinning and waving.

“I’m here at the same time as you!” Drew said, slowing as she got to them. “That means I’m not late.”

“Hi, Drew,” Vincent said, his lack of enthusiasm accentuated by her beaming face.

“Vincey’s tired, today, so go easy on him.” Lain grinned as Vincent glared at him.

“Oh, you’re working too hard!” Drew said, and now Vincent felt like he had two mothers.

“I’m fine,” he said flatly, and stormed into the building with a slight wave.

Lain pouted after him. “See you later…”

“You’re the guy who…” Drew faltered, “the arsonist.” She looked back at the station’s glass doors, swinging asynchronously.

“Yes.” Lain followed her gaze. “That was a bit of a night.”

She turned back to him and said, “Are you feeling better?”

“One could say. Thanks for being so kind.” His gaze alighted on her, and she could almost feel it, brushing her skin, then sinking in.

“That’s alright,” she said, brushing her hair aside, even though it wasn’t in her face. “I’d better get in to work, but it was nice seeing you again.” Her fingers tinkled in a little wave, and she scuttled into the building with one involuntary look over her shoulder.

~*~

“Vincey,” Lain’s voice frolicked close to his ear, his fingers flicking at the pages of his book and making him lose his place.

Vincent swatted Lain’s hand away and swiped through the book, scanning each page for the last one he recognised.

“You know that blonde girl you work with?” Lain continued, leaning against the arm of the couch Vincent was sitting on. This was the fee Vincent paid for visiting Lain’s house and reading his books.

“Drew?” Vincent said slowly, reluctantly, with utmost dread.

“Yes! Do you know her phone number?”

“No,” Vincent lied, staring hard at the book on his lap.

Lain hissed. “Liar! Tell me what it is!” He whacked his ear lightly.

Vincent made to grab his hand, but missed. He stared up at Lain, dead straight in the eyes. “No.”

“Why not?” Lain whined, leaning further against the armrest, legs tipping off the floor.

“So far, you’ve done a good job of keeping your…dalliances out of my range of vision, and I’d like you to keep it that way.”

“But she’s cute!”

“You just want to annoy me, don’t you?”

“No! That’s not why!” Lain’s voice rose an octave.

“You’re the liar. I’m pretty sure everything you do is to annoy me.”

“Fine then!” Lain stabbed his finger into Vincent’s shoulder. “I’m annoying! Annoying annoying annoying!” He flicked at his ear in time to each word.

“Stop it!” Vincent successfully caught Lain’s hand and wrenched it downwards, twisting it so that Lain’s torso was forced into an awkward horizontal position.

Lain mouthed ‘ow’, and tried to wriggle out of the surprisingly strong grip. “Where do you keep your muscle?” He tried to keep the strain out of his voice. “Are you like Mary Poppins’ bag?”

“What?” Vincent blinked at him, his grip slackening enough for Lain to retrieve his hand.

“You know how it had all that stuff in it but it was only normal sized?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, in the movie _ Mary Poppins _ ?”

“Oh. No, I haven’t seen it.”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t watch many movies.”

“Even as a kid?”

“Especially as a kid.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Lain leant over the armrest again and wrapped his arms around Vincent’s shoulders.

“It’s not such a tragedy, Lain,” Vincent said stiffly, trying to pry Lain’s arms off him. Instead, Lain lost his balance and pulled Vincent sideways, their heads hitting the seat of the couch simultaneously. “Ack. This is what happens when you hug,” Vincent said and Lain burst into laughter, resting there for a moment before kicking his legs until he pulled himself upright again. Vincent stood up, straightening his shirt as he stepped away from Lain. His book lay on the carpet with a few pages folded under itself. 

They both stared at each other’s shoulders, Vincent warily and Lain with a laughing smile on his lips, his hair puffed up at the front, looking like some of the candyfloss had leaked out of his brain. Vincent was sure it would’ve been a brighter colour than black.

~*~

Drew collected her bag from her locker, checking that her wallet, keys and phone were still in their little pockets. Every limb felt exhausted, after chasing a thief across town, and the attempt to coax him down from a tree had used up most of her brain cells. As she thought about collapsing on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate, she heard a familiar voice outside.

“I’ve come to pick you up!”

“No, you haven’t.” That was Vincent, giving her a clue as to the owner of the other voice.

She sidestepped so that she could peek at them from inside the station's entrance, shuddering at how creepy she was being. The fluorescent lights overhead and the white walls around her made her hair and blouse shine as she watched the pair in the gloomy street. 

“It’s eight o’ clock. You never get up earlier than nine,” Vincent continued, edging away from Lain a little.

“That’s not true! I used to have a class at nine and I only missed it once.”

“You probably slept through it.”

“Did not.” Lain gave Vincent a whack on the arm.

“I don’t believe you.” Vincent returned the whack.

Lain’s hand lunged forwards and – did he just pinch him?

“Ow!” Vincent rubbed his arm. “Who said pinches were allowed?” He gave Lain another whack.

“Me,” Lain said, flicking at Vincent’s nose.

Vincent swatted at Lain’s hand, making a loud ‘crack’ sound and leaving Lain pouting and rubbing his hand while he glowered at him.

Drew heard footsteps behind her, so she reluctantly strode forwards as though she hadn’t just been spying, and exited the building. As soon as she did, Lain’s face whirled around to face her, beaming and still clutching at his sore hand.

“Hi, Drew!” he said, half-skipping towards her. 

“Hi, Lain.” She gave him a little wave and felt heat creep into her face. She didn’t know if it was from jealousy or something else.

“I came to give Vincey a lift home, but he doesn’t want it,” Lain said.

“I’m sorry for being ungrateful,” Vincent said quickly and abruptly. “We can go now.”

“Okay, okay.” Lain waved him off, still looking at Drew. “What about you? You look tired. Would you like a ride home?”

Drew laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear, inadvertently messing it up. “It’s okay. My bus will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“I could have you home by then!” Lain said. “I don’t mind. I’m procrastinating on an assignment, you see.”

“He’s a terrible driver,” Vincent said.

“Am not.” Lain pouted.

“You’re too careless.”

“I never crash.”

“Yet.”

“Are you hoping I’ll crash?”

“No! I’m saying you drive like you hope you will!”

“Okay,” Drew blurted out, louder than she’d intended, the sound like an embarrassing stain. She continued quietly, “I’ll go with you. Thank you.”

“It’s a pleasure!” Lain said, gesturing ostentatiously in the direction of his car and walking jauntily towards it.

The other two followed, Vincent looking disdainfully at Drew, who was pink cheeked and staring at the ground. Something stirred between them, and it wasn’t as pretty as she would’ve liked, but at least it was something.

Lain unlocked the car and opened the front passenger door, gesturing for Drew to enter. She did so with an embarrassed little chuckle. Vincent wrenched open the back door and slammed himself inside, making the car shake.

“So,” Lain said, pulling out of the carpark and weaving into the next lane. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Vincent said quickly, and the word could’ve felled a tree.

“It was good,” Drew nodded. “But hard work. What about you? Did you, er, sleep well?”

“Enough,” Lain said, shrugging.

“You should’ve been writing your essay, if you couldn’t sleep,” Vincent said, and Lain frowned at him in the rear view mirror

“He thinks he can tell me what to do,” Lain said to Drew in mock confidence.

“Do not,” Vincent said. “I’m not delusional.”

Drew twisted her mouth, pursing it to one side like a rosebud, either to hold in a laugh or a grimace.

“I would take his advice on some things,” she said. “He knows a lot.” Lain fought the urge to roll his eyes. “But…not on everything.”

“Yes.” He nodded, adding airily, “But we all have our weaknesses, I suppose.”

“Talk about something else, please,” Vincent said with the sharp politeness of a schoolteacher.

“But it’s what we have in common!” Lain said with an angelic smile that couldn’t have convinced a four year old.

As Vincent groaned and started to slip into a daydream about a world where no one felt the need to bother him with a single thing, Drew sat up in her seat and pointed.

“There’s my street, by the next lights,” she said.

“See!” Lain said, changing lanes. “I told you I’d get you there quickly. Not that I’m entirely happy about that. Would you like to meet me for lunch, sometime?”

Drew froze as though the sudden question had had no lead up, even though it had been creeping closer to her and tugging on her sleeve ever since their second meeting. He was pulling into her street and still waiting for an answer, politely focusing on the road, face relaxed, glancing in the rear view mirror. She looked in the side view mirror, and the miniature Vincent in there was absolutely livid, woken from his daydream by this sorry occurrence.

“Okay,” she said, then pointed at a bright blue letterbox up ahead. “That’s my house.”

“Great!” Lain said as he pulled into her driveway. He parked the car, then leant over her to fish a pen out of the glove compartment. She accidentally smelt him, like soap and clean linen. 

He scribbled his phone number on a notepad, adding his name as though she would forget, and handed the piece of paper to her with a flourish.

“Thanks; I’ll see you later,” she said, her voice sounding muffled and subdued to her ears, soft to Lain’s, and shrill to Vincent’s.

“Bye!” Lain waved as she got out of the car.

She walked slowly down the driveway to her flat, small even for a one bedroom unit, the paint cracking slightly and a piece of wood swinging from the stairwell ramp like a wave hello. Lain felt claustrophobic just looking at it, wondering where she kept all her…well, few others their age had hoards of ancestral antiques clogging up their house, did they?

He turned to Vincent, who was glaring forwards, seatbelt still on, and said, “Are you going to switch seats?”

“No,” he said flatly, staring out his window, which, happily, was in the opposite direction to Lain.

“Fine, then,” Lain said, a pout in his voice, but with the lilt of the triumphant, not unnoticed by Vincent.

~*~

“What’s he so excited about?” Todd asked, scrutinising Lain’s wide eyes as he sat next to him in the information commons. 

All of the hard, purple couches were filled with other students and their packets of junk food, but Yelizabeta had secured them a small, round table in the corner. She and Lain had their books and notes stacked in front of them. 

“He’s got a date,” she said with raised eyebrows, and Todd felt like a thin, sharp rod had been aimed at his forehead.

“Everyone but me,” he muttered, his expression like a sour lolly in the shape of a kitten.

“ _ Actually _ , my date’s not ‘till tomorrow.” Lain spread his textbooks and notes out and away from him and leant back in his plastic chair. “She’s got a family thing today.”

“If she’s into family, she won’t like you,” Todd said.

“She won’t figure that out in time, anyway,” Lain said, and Yelizabeta shook her head like an old woman who missed the good old days of loveless marriages.

“So, what’re you excited about, then?” Todd pressed, leaning towards him at a distance that was alluring and not overbearing, he thought.

“I’ve got an ingenious plan!” Lain flashed a wide grin.

Todd’s face darkened. Yelizabeta rolled her eyes and pretended to busy herself with studying, though she was listening more than reading, the words looking more like pictures than writing.

“You’re both so disparaging of my vendetta,” Lain said with a dramatic sigh, then bent over the piece of paper in front of him, which looked suspiciously like a flow chart, and he’d never used flow charts in his _ study _ before. The scribbles of fire in the corners were a giveaway.

~*~

At noon the next day, Drew sat on the hard metal slats of a bench outside  _ Dream Cafe _ . The wad of chewing gum next to her was making her wonder what other, invisible things might be on the seat. She sat more precariously on the edge, causing the end slat to dig into her thighs more, and tapped her foot impatiently. Not that he was late. She was early. And that didn’t mean she was eager. The bus only came once every half an hour. He’d be there in ten minutes, and then she could stop…worrying a little bit and start worrying a lot. If she'd said yes to the boy who’d asked her out in year eleven, she wouldn't have felt quite so terrified at this moment. But he’d eaten scrambled egg sandwiches every day and talked all the way through class, and he’d worn his pants so low he always looked like he’d defecated himself. So she was better off with her fear. 

When he finally waltzed down the road, she had to remind herself that she wasn’t going out with him because she liked him, even though she kind of did like him. His burgundy shirt and cream pants were perfectly colour coordinated with his burgundy and cream boots, and his black hair seemed fuller and softer than before, the little curls at the neck curving inwards and coiling into half-ringlets.

“Hi!” he said, stopping in front of her bench and restraining himself from springing onto the balls of his feet. 

She sprung upright and said, “How are you?”

“Fantastic!” His eyes beamed like lamps. “And you?”

“Very good.” She nodded awkwardly.

He gestured to the cafe. “Shall we enter?” 

“Sure,” she said, following his outstretched arm, and he followed her into the silver-edged glass doors. “Just so you know, I don’t want you to pay for me.”

“I understand the feeling behind it,” he said, smiling. “However, I have to insist at least once. I need help squandering my inheritance, after all.”

“Now, why would you want to do that?” She wrinkled her nose at him, and he laughed. “What about your future?”

“I’m not worried.” He shrugged like an electric charge was sparking through him. “I’ll probably get myself killed before then.”

“That’s terrible! And you can’t count on that.”

“If I don’t, I’ll still have my legitimately earned income. I’m going to be a lawyer, you see.”

“Oh, well, I suppose you’ve thought it through.” She looked down at her shoes bashfully, then up at him. “I’m sorry if I was a bit lecturey.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, tapping her on the arm playfully. “I’m used to lectures at uni.”

She chuckled, her insides relaxing their frightened grip on each other. The pair walked up to the cabinets and menus of the café, a chocolate tart instantly catching their eyes. Drew stared at its dark brown mound of filling for a moment that took a lot of self control to break, like wrenching a nail out of the wrong place in the wall. Unfortunately, the hole still remained. Lain made no pretence of self control and walked up to the counter to order it. When Drew heard “chocolate tart” leave his lips, her eyes went straight back to the blasted thing, and that was it – she’d ordered it, too.

“I can’t believe I ordered that,” she said as she followed him to the table. “It’s so huge it’s disgusting.”

“Disgustingly delicious,” Lain said as he sat down, not one gram of remorse in him.

“I blame you for normalising it.” She gave him mock evils while taking her seat, but his snicker sent her into giggles.

“So, how’s work?” he asked.

“Not bad,” she said. “Except Vincent’s been really grumpy. Maybe it’s just at me…”

“Yeah, he called me a cretin when I called him, yesterday. I had something exciting to tell him, but he didn’t want to listen!”

“I guess he doesn’t want us to go out,” she said, though both of them knew it wasn’t a guess.

“I’m pretty sure he thinks everything’s a plot to embarrass him,” he said, and she laughed sadly.

“He’s quite confident in other ways, though."

“That’s true.” He nodded with a smirk. “Confident enough to do his own thing.”

“I really have to admire him for that,” she said, a little twinge of her own insecurity being pinched. 

“But," he paused, "don’t you think that if he felt even a little bit bad about it, he might be more receptive to new things? I don’t mean I want him to feel bad about himself, perhaps I just mean he could be a little more open to other ways of being…”

“Are you open to other ways of being? Have you tried not eating a chocolate tart whenever you feel like it?”

He laughed, an incredulous note near the top of the scale. “I have! But I see what you mean. Maybe the real issue is that I’m worried that he’s not enjoying life as much as he could be.”

“Oh! We all worry about that. All of us that care about him, that is.”

“Mmm, and he’s had such a tough life, you know?”

She blinked at him, a nonplussed expression that summed up everything she knew about him, then it dissolved into vague understanding that she swallowed down with a gulp. His smile flickered for a moment, then settled in and became indulgent. They both understood; Vincent told Lain things he told no one else.

A clink on the table tore their agonising stare asunder, two chocolate tarts sitting before them. They both looked up at the smiling waitress and thanked her before she darted away again.

“They’re bigger in person,” Drew said, staring at the monstrosity in front of her.

“I’ll help you finish yours.” Lain grinned.

“I can finish it myself!” She put a protective hand around the plate.

They both laughed and rammed their forks into their tarts like javelins into an enemy infantry.

“He’d think this was disgusting,” Lain said, before his mouth engulfed the slab of chocolate on his fork.

Drew nodded, then said, “Even you can’t get him to eat crap?”

Lain swallowed the creamy chocolate, not quite rich enough for his tastes, but worth the calories, and said, “ _ Even me _ ,” enunciating every syllable.

They finished their tarts in silence, Drew as slowly as she could, savouring every mouthful, while Lain ate with only shame for mess.

“So, what do you do for a living?” she asked as she set down her fork, just when the coffees came, late because one of the coffee runners hadn't turned up for work.

Lain laughed. “I told you; I squander my inheritance.”

“No job?” She gaped. “How old are you?”

“Twenty three,” he said, shrugging. “I actually did have a job, once, but something bad happened and I got fired. But it’s really hard, getting up in the morning to sell beds and linen, and what else is there for a student with no work experience?”

“Selling books?” she said with a wry smile.

He laughed. “I’d rather be reading them myself."

“Fair enough,” she said. “But, still… How will a law firm hire you if you have no references?”

“I could say I’ve been so dedicated to my studies thus far that I couldn’t spare time for a job! And then show them all my Bs…”

“Bs aren’t bad!”

“They are in Law. Who knows. Maybe I won’t get through and I’ll just study all my life.”

“You have enough money for that?”

He paused. “I don’t think I’d enjoy it, anyway.” He frowned into his chai latte, something uncomfortable settling in his stomach and making it look unappetising, while she gave him a quizzical look that he didn’t look up to see. “What about you? What impressive references did you give when you tried out for police college?”

She laughed and winced. “I studied English for a semester while working at McDonalds, and everyone told me I’d end up still working at McDonalds after graduating, so I thought about what job I really wanted to do, and joined the police.”

“Oh! There are plenty of jobs English majors can do! It’s the Sociology and Psychology majors that are in trouble.” Except for Yelizabeta and her fifty year postgraduate plan. He laughed. Yes, that life was for people like her, not him.

“Yeah, but I’m happy, so it’s fine. I was only studying what I liked, not with a job in mind.”

“That’s the best part of uni! I hate half my Law papers but I love my electives.”

“Half? Why’re you doing Law, then?”

“I…want to make things even,” he said, a pink flush in his cheeks and his eyes sparking again, giving off a bright green hue that seeped into the surrounding air and was hard not to look at like a sopping thirteen year old.

“So,” she said, shaking her head and focusing her eyes on her teaspoon, trying to work out what the metalwork on the tip of the handle was supposed to be, “it’s a justice thing.”

“Yes,” he said softly and clearly.

She looked up at him and smiled warmly. “That’s really noble.”

“Were you worried I was going to grow up into a crooked lawyer?” He smirked.

“No, but it’s nice to know for sure that you won’t.”

“Do we ever really know someone for sure?”

“I hope so. Either way, I promise I won’t be fake with you.”

“Oh!” He smiled in surprise. “Then I’ll have to make the same promise to you.”

“Great! Now, the only way we’ll see each other incorrectly will be if we have a skewed perspective.” She frowned, hesitating, and he laughed.

They both sipped their drinks, smiling around the curve of the glasses, staring over the froth like sailors staring over flotsam at mermaids.

Lain set down his drink and stirred it, looking at Drew through a curve of hair that had fallen over his eyes. Her hair looked gold in the light splaying out from the window, and the tip of her nose shone. 

“Are you working tonight?” he asked.

Drew let herself take a little longer than necessary to lower her drink and swallow her mouthful.

“Yes,” she said. “But I would have said yes to going out if I weren’t.”

He grinned. “Another day?”

She blushed and nodded.


	6. Chapter 6

Lain drove over to Ember’s house and parked across the street, next to a granite wall surrounding what was supposed to be a house but looked like a grey block of ice with a clay tiled roof. He watched the lights in her ivory-painted window frames and the flicker of shadow against the net curtains. The flicker that wouldn’t still. The lights that wouldn’t dim. His leg started vibrating, and he clamped his hand to it, fingers claw-like, if only his nails weren’t so bitten down. Nails… He brought his hand to his mouth and chomped on the nail of his pinky, the only one still long enough to do some damage to. Satisfying, ripping kind of damage. He spat the nail out and stared at it, balancing on the finger it was once attached to, and felt disgusting. He thought he'd stop biting soon. Soon. Soon the lights would go out. Or maybe not. It was already one thirty. His leg started vibrating again and he gave it a stinging slap in frustration. The thick material of his jeans dulled the effect.

A thud against the side of his car shook his attention off his leg as the car tipped from side to side. He stared around him, but saw nothing, just the empty street lit with orange dots under lamp posts. No shape merged with the granite wall and slunk away. No rustle in the square hedge a couple of houses away. At least, that he saw. What he didn’t see…that seemed too large and fearsome, encompassing too much, too much that was all around him, right next to him, in his mind, everywhere. He found himself turning the key in the ignition and speeding out of the street.

~*~

“Ember,” Qianbei said gently, trying to keep his anger and nervousness out of his voice. “Go to the car through the garage door.”

“What?” Ember gave him a confused look as she clopped into the entrance hall in her red, six inch heels.

“Just…go through the garage door.”

“But the door bangs into the washing machine. Why can’t I go through the front door?” She peered out at him, standing on the doorstep, staring at the front of the house, then quickly back at her. “What’s there?” she demanded, stomping down the hall towards him, where he met her with outstretched arms that tried to push her back.

She swiped him aside with a swing of her arm, but that didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around her waist as she passed, trying to anchor her to the spot.

“Can’t I just fix it before you see it, lah?” he pleaded. “You’ll only make yourself mad!”

“No! Let me see it!” She tried to keep walking, dragging him along with her, for she didn’t want to pry him off her, especially if she was about to see something unfavourable.

“Fine.” He released his hold and walked back outside and towards the car. “But you have to clean it up yourself, now.”

She frowned at him, leaving her all alone to look at whatever was so terrible that she shouldn’t be seeing it. Then she tentatively walked out the front door, as though her heels were suddenly too much for her, and glanced at the front of the house. And screeched. No syllable seemed adequate to express her anger, so all she could do was make them all in the most unlistenable way possible.

On the front of her beautiful house, the word ‘BITCH’ was spray painted in red.

She ran into the house and came out seconds later with a cloth, a pail of water and a container of sugar soap clutched in fists so tense her veins were protruding from her arms.

“I’ll tell work you’re sick,” Qianbei said, smiling at her sadly.

“Why aren’t you more mad?” she yelled at him as she threw her cleaning utensils down on the front deck.

“I am,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t want you to see it.”

“Then go beat him up or something!”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Who else would it be?”

“Good point. But still… Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know!” It was barely more comprehensible than the screech.

Qianbei pushed himself away from the car, which he hadn’t even bothered to open, and walked inside, coming back out with a scrubbing brush. He quietly took his place next to her and started to scrub at the section of ‘B’ that she had sloshed sugar-soapy water over with the cloth. They worked silently together while she tried to copy his even breathing and not rub the paint deeper into the wood. Still, the paint was only half faded after half an hour of scrubbing and four aching arms.

“It won’t come off,” she said, a creak in her voice accompanying the flecks of moisture getting caught in her eyelashes.

“We should call that van that goes around fixing graffiti, ah,” he said, setting down his scrubbing brush and wrapping and arm around her shoulders.

“Okay,” she nodded, sniffing a little and blinking the moisture out of her eyes. She clenched her fists and her jaw. “Then I’m calling _ him _ .”

“May I call him, ah?” Qianbei asked so politely that she had to nod, even though she kept wondering whether he really did want to call him or if he just wanted to stop her from doing it and screaming down the phone. Either way, she could just scream over his shoulder while he tried to be all diplomatic and crap.

They walked inside, still with his arm around her shoulder (which could have either been a supportive gesture or a restraining one – neither were sure), almost trampling over each other’s feet. Thankfully for Qianbei, Ember’s heel just missed his little toe.

When they got into the living room, he let her go, and she sat down on the couch, her elbows and knees locked at sharp right angles and one fist clenched around the other. She watched him as he went for the phone. His nervous smile made her realise that her expression was not appropriate to direct at one so soft and utterly harmless as him, so she stared across the room at the wallpaper, instead. Perhaps it needed changing. Those flowers looked menacing, their petals looking like human faces, a fold and a shadow making a slanted eye and a frown. Yes. They would replace the wallpaper and she’d burn the remains of the old one. That would make her feel better. A bit.

“Thank you,” Qianbei was saying. “We’ll be here most of today, but if we’re not home, just go ahead, can? Thanks. Bye.”

He hung up the phone and Ember looked at him expectantly, trying not to direct any of her rage towards him.

“I’ll call work, first,” he said, and started dialling before she could protest.

She listened while he explained that she was sick and that he had to take her to the doctor, frowning at him, her hands braced against her thighs, arms tense, ready to heft herself up. As soon as he hung up the phone, she darted forward and grabbed at it, while he squawked in surprise and clutched it to his chest like a dire message for a king.

They wrestled for it before he relinquished it to her, saying, “Fine, la. I was only trying to help.” He sounded so adorably petulant that she almost felt bad as she scuttled to the other side of the room and started dialling Lain’s number from memory.

“Hello?” Lain answered.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, you little swine?” Ember spat down the phone.

“What?” he whined. “I haven’t done anything, yet!”

“Oh, really? You had a quiet night, did you?”

“Well…I did go over to your place to do something, but you guys wouldn’t go to bed, and then something hit my car and I got scared and drove home…” He sounded guiltier about that than he ever had about the terrible things he’d done.

“Then who graffiti’d my wall?” she yelled.

“I don’t know! Kids graffiti all the time! Do you think I’d do something so…common?”

“Then who did it? Why would some random kid write ‘bitch’ on my wall?” She regretted the slight calming of her tone.

He burst into laughter, the sound creaking as it made its ungainly way down the phone.

“Shut up!” she growled.

“Oh, God,” he said, trying to control his laughter, though not hard enough. “That’s too hilarious, but why would _ I _ do that?”

“I don’t know! You’re insecure and want to take it out on me?” she tried.

“Sorry, dear, I’m quite content,” he said pompously.

“Right,” she said, not bothering to hide her scepticism. “Well. I’m not sure I’m convinced.”

“ _ Excuse me _ . I haven’t persisted about my father’s ring, even though I can’t think who the hell else it could’ve been.”

“The cops still came round to my house.”

“Can you blame them for seeing you as a viable suspect?”

“No. I blame you. You probably spewed a load of nonsense at them.”

“They already know the worst of it, remember?”

“That was your fault, for being too loud, that time with the _ poems _ ,” she said mockingly.

“And that time you almost set that innocent woman’s fence on fire? That was my fault, too?”

“Yes. You drove me to it.”

“I influence you that much, do I? How sweet!”

“It _ is _ the only real influence you have on anything other than your bank account, let alone another human.”

“I’ll have you know that I enrage my best friend quite a lot, thank you very much!”

“Best friend?” she said cynically. “Isn’t she more of a mother slash counsellor?”

“Oh!” He started. “I meant…”

She started laughing as he trailed off, and she said, “So you’ve bonded with another?”

“Hmph. I have other friends.”

“Fuckbuddies don’t count. And I know even you don’t want to count Todd.” She burst out laughing before she finished the sentence.

“Ugh. I can see you’ve cheered up, so why don’t you go sort out your wall and leave me alone?”

“Fine then. But I’m still getting you back.”

“No, _ I _ still have to get you back! Double!”

“Oh, no. It’s my turn.”

“ _ Is not _ .”

“Is too is too is too is too!” she yelled like a toddler and hung up the phone. No point in getting into one of those arguments with him. He had far too much stamina for them.

“He never denies what he does,” Qianbei said, leaning against the arm rest of the couch. “Let it go, lah.”

“But then who will I punish?” she said with an exaggerated sigh, as though this were an issue that stumped every philosopher.

“You just need to release your anger,” he said. “It doesn’t matter that there’s nothing to direct it at.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said, walking over to the kitchen and putting the phone in its slot to charge, then trudging over to him. “It’s just…no fun, you know? Whoever did do it _ really sucks _ and I hope they poisoned themselves with aerosol fumes.”

“Me, too,” he said softly, and she was about ninety per cent sure it was over her honour, rather than the side of their pretty little house.

She hooked her fingers in his belt loops and pulled him forwards, meeting him half way with a kiss that she happily leant down into, her heels and the way he bowed his knees making her a couple of inches taller. He snagged his hands in her hair with a carefulness disguised as an impulsive, wanton gesture, and tugged her further towards him. As soon as she opened her mouth against his, a shiver that wasn’t entirely pleasant tingled down her spine and jarred her out of the kiss.

“I feel a bit gross,” she said quietly.

He made a sympathetic, incredulous little squeak and squeezed her tight.

~*~

The word may have gone, but the patch of cream paint against their light yellow house was a stab in the eye for both of them.

“Can’t I just pretend it was Lain?” Ember almost wailed, clutching at Qianbei’s shoulder, relaxing her hand right before those iron-hard nails dug in.

“Can you?” he asked, looking at her earnestly, then sadly back at the wall like his child had been disfigured and the doctor had been unable to mend the lesion completely.

“No,” she said sullenly, and stamped her heels into the stone walkway as she made her way back inside.

He followed her in and said, “Maybe we should work.”

“That would be a waste of a sick day,” she said.

“It might take our minds off it, ah.”

“Or…we could see if the paint shop has our yellow in stock.”

“That’ll fix it, can?” he asked, leaning on the door as he shut it. 

“If it doesn’t, we’ll paint the whole house!” she said, suddenly beaming, turning to him as she grabbed her purse off the small table in the hallway.

He paused and stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Then…we should change the colour, if we’re bothering with that.” When she headed towards him, eyes alight, he stiffened and flattened against the glazed wood of the door. “Wait, lah! You’re not going to buy the first colour you see, are you?”

“Let’s just have a look at what’s there,” she said, wedging her hand between his arm and the door and using it as a lever to shunt him to the side.

He relaxed and moved aside, but said, “Then, we shouldn’t take our wallets, lah.”

“No, it’s fine!” She clutched her purse to her chest as she opened the door and walked out.

“You’re going to ruin our house,” he said in despair, though he followed her to the car.

“I’m going to un-ruin it!” She turned to him and quirked the corner of his mouth up with a fingertip.

“How did this turn into _ you _ jollying _ me _ along?” he asked.

“Because I am now calm and have nowhere to direct my boundless rage, so I must splatter paint all over a house to redirect my energy,” she said sweetly. “You, on the other hand, have realised that your precious house is scarred much worse than you previously realised.”

“It has,” he said, turning and staring at it forlornly. “Worrying about your reaction was a nice distraction from the reality of it.”

“Don’t worry! I’ll give you something to worry about, soon!” she chirped, swinging open the car door and hopping in.

~*~

Drew hoped her glare was as formidable as Vincent’s, but it wasn’t, and she knew it with the certainty of a child trying to stare down a teacher. Was it more disapproving or angry? That was the question that gnawed at her mind. 

He was busy trying to convince himself that he was merely annoyed, but his expression wasn't convincing anyone else.

The road ahead was a mess of black shadows on grey concrete that neither of them could concentrate on. 

“Vincent,” Drew said, tapping his shoulder curtly and staring at his unfocused eyes. 

Alas, his gaze sharpened, piercing her forehead. “Yes?”

“Do you think I’m terrible and unworthy of your friend, or –“

Before she could finish her question, he answered, “You’re both idiots,” and turned back to the road, pretending he could actually focus on it.

~*~

Vincent found himself similarly accosted by Lain, reminding him of why it took him so long to buy himself a mobile phone in the first place.

“You think I’m tarnishing your workplace!” Lain almost wailed down the phone. “Just like you think I tarnish your life! Well, fine! I don’t need you!”

He slammed the phone down, leaving Vincent with the indignity of calling him back.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Vincent said, under the false impression that he sounded exasperated instead of angry.

“ _ You’re _ being dramatic!” Lain played up to the drama perfectly, his voice warbling just the right amount.

“Am not,” Vincent said indignantly.

“Yes you are! You’re making a way bigger deal about this than you should!”

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t do it to get this kind of reaction out of me.”

“Maybe I just like her. Some of us have those feelings, you know.”

“Too bad these fabled feelings of yours aren’t accompanied by some self control.”

“Do you mean self control, or repression?” Lain said.

“I mean self control. Are you truly saying that giving up one…liason…out of many would cause you that much grief?”

“Not grief…”

“Just annoyance. Far less annoyance than you’re causing me.”

“So shall I break up with her? Ooh, maybe she’ll weep on your shoulder! It was her first date, after all.”

“ _ What _ ? No. Just…be undesirable.” Vincent tried to make it sound like that wasn’t preposterous. Because it truly wasn’t. Truly.

Lain laughed. “Maybe she’ll get scared away when I rabbit on about how marriage is a load of crap and romantic love doesn’t exist.”

Vincent paused, though an imaginary pop of tension may have been heard. “Well. Yes. That should do it, shouldn’t it?”

“Oh! Wait!” Lain exclaimed. “I already told her and she applauded my honesty.”

“Oh, good God.” Vincent flomped onto his bed, almost losing his grip on his phone in the process.

“Don’t worry!” Lain said. “She knows that about me, so she’s obviously not taking this seriously.”

“So break up with her.”

“Later.”

“ _ Lain _ ,” Vincent said through his teeth, then hung up the phone.

Either Lain was filled with fear at the sound of Vincent’s chagrin, or he was letting him stew for the fun of it, for he didn't call him back.

~*~

“Maybe we should paint our house red,” Ember said, tapping at a paint can with a colour swatch. “To deter any evildoers.”

“And encourage others,” Qianbei raised an eyebrow. “You want to live in a bright red house?”

“I do.” She nodded earnestly.

“Do you think I do?”

She shook her head, bottom lip sticking out in a pursed pout. He turned back to the row of paint cans and continued to scrutinise each one, while that wound-red colour filtered out of his memory.

A shop attendant peeked his head around the shelf and said, “Hello, do you need any help finding a colour?”

Both Ember and Qianbei shook their heads, doing their best not to look patronising, despite the synchronised voices in their heads wondering what he could tell them that they didn’t already know. 

They continued looking down the aisle, but Ember kept grabbing the metal rail of the shelf and pointing at gaudy purples and overbright yellows, and even she knew that she wasn’t ‘in the mood’ for a leisurely stroll down a paint shop, followed by a life-changing decision.

She hooked a finger through one of Qianbei’s belt loops and pulled him away from the pot he was scrutinising, his gaze like an interrogation at an adoption agency.

“I’m not to be trusted,” she said in his ear, “but I trust you. I’ll see you later.”

She glided back down the aisles and out the doors, the clench in her limbs almost gone. Her re-entrance half an hour later was even more relaxed, accompanied by two half-translucent plastic bags. Qianbei turned from a paint can and frowned at the bags.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“Not telling.” She swung them to and fro like pigtails. After a second more of his frown, she sighed exaggeratedly and said, “Fine, look,” and opened one of the bags under his nose.

Inside the bag was about twenty wedding-cake toppers. All of the women had strawberry blonde hair and all of the men had black hair.

“They’re obviously not us,” he said, staring at the blank-eyed little figures piled on top of each other, legs and heads sticking out of the mound in jagged angles.

She just shook her head, a wicked, pursed smile on her lips, eyes twinkling at him in a way that would have been alluring if he wasn’t concerned. Maybe it still was.

“You’re not going to torment Lain about his marriage issues, are you?” he asked apprehensively.

“He already thinks I’m capable of that, so…” Ember shrugged, indignation flashing in her eyes for a second before…that other look came back. “Besides, this will be cathartic for him. I’m being nice.”

“Then why do you look slightly evil?” he said, unable to stop the laugh that burst from his lips.

She tweaked his almond coloured collar affectionately.

“We should paint our house this colour,” she said, then hooked a finger through his belt loop again and pulled him in the direction of the shop assistant. “Do you have this colour?” she pronounced, gesturing to Qianbei’s shirt like it was a sculpture.

“I’ll have a look,” the shop assistant said, scuttling off to his computer and looking back and forth between it and the shirt.

“I always knew you had good style,” she said, wrapping an arm around his waist, a wedding-topper laden plastic bag swinging and banging against his leg.

“How am I supposed to argue with this decision?” he wondered aloud. 

~*~

Lain can be excused for his ungracious receipt of Ember's 'cathartic' gift. The little hopeful brides and grooms were torn apart and crunched under his metal-plated heels, and the matchboxes provided at their feet were burnt in a pile in the middle of his backyard. The smoke alerted some so-called overcautious neighbours, but the police who arrived at his doorstep were not familiar, and Lain’s emotions only writhed more violently inside his skull. Once the charge for careless firesetting was laid, and the fire put out, he collapsed onto his couch and sobbed for a while, his phone giving him the only impetus to stifle the tears and clear the croaking, shaking frog out of his voice.

“Hello?” he answered. 

“Hi Lain! It’s Drew. I was wondering if you wanted to go to the movies tonight.”

“That would be lovely,” Lain said, even though his voice sounded like it was in a box outside his body.

Drew proceeded to list the movie titles and times while Lain lay on the couch, hand to his forehead, glimpsing the black patch of grass out the French doors opposite. He felt like two hot water bottles were being pressed to his cheeks, perhaps in a misguided attempt to make him feel better. But he already felt hot, in his brain, his limbs, his tears, once again trailing from his eyes and almost steaming off his cheeks.

He made slow ‘mmhmm’ noises at all of her suggestions, until she asked, “Are you feeling alright? We can go a different day, if you want?”

“It’s okay,” he said, appalled that his voice was starting to split like paint on a sun-scorched house. “It’s just been an…odd morning. But I do want to go.”

It was a lie, and it was the truth. He wanted to stay at home and burn the remains of the cake-toppers whilst weeping and then go to bed early with a stomach empty, save for the globs of wedding cake he was only imagining were churning through his gut. But he didn’t want to want that. So he agreed to meet Drew at six thirty for a light dinner and some movie called _It could have been me_.


	7. Chapter 7

Drew hurried from her doorstep to Lain’s car, swinging her bag over her shoulder as she went, and slid into the passenger seat with a bright, “Hello!”

“Hello,” Lain said, voice tempered and eyes heavy as he started the car. 

“Did you get over your odd morning?” she asked.

“Somewhat,” he said distantly, expelling some of the memory with a sigh.

“Cheer up!” She prodded him in the side, making him involuntarily brake the car. “Oops, probably shouldn’t do that to a driver.”

He laughed, and it was real and clear, not muffled by the blanket of his mood.

“Apparently, I’m not a very good driver, anyway,” he said, shrugging and smiling at her.

He pulled into the carpark at the movie theatre and found a spare park surrounded by four wheel drives that had nearly edged it into non-existence.

Drew took his arm and they walked through the concrete building with its painted boundaries to the lift. Lain’s arm tightened around hers as they descended in the tiny box. No matter what anyone said, mirrors never made a room look bigger. They just showed your wide eyes and lips pressing themselves into your mouth. Drew didn’t tighten her arm in response; instead, she leant against him, cheek touching his shoulder, the heat in her face seeping through his shirt. When the lift released them on solid ground, she didn’t step away to quite the distance she’d been at before.

“I thought we could eat here,” she said, gesturing to a restaurant at the end of the street.

He looked at its wooden sign with golden orange letters flickering the words,  _ The Fire Pit.  _

“I’ve been here before! Good choice.” He omitted that he’d been there with an ex. 

They approached the restaurant and the waiter standing by the door almost pounced on them, spouting off the fish of the day and wood-fired pizza specials. They both tensed like frightened hares, but let him usher them to a little table by the corner of the room, until Lain pronounced that it was too small and ‘cosy’ and that he’d prefer the larger table by the fire. No. The one _ right by the fire _ . Drew giggled and followed him to it.

“Why do you like fire _ so much _ ?” she asked, sitting opposite him and watching him over the little candle in the middle of the table.

He paused, picking up the candle holder and considering it for a moment. “I almost always have. It’s very expressive. And a beautiful way to destroy things.”

“You like to destroy things?” she asked.

"Sometimes. Unimportant or terrible things, and mostly when I’m overcome with feeling.”

She blinked at him, the fire turning her eyelash shadows into spikes. 

"Well, how do you express yourself?" he asked. 

She blushed and stared down at the golden brown table top, the shine of the varnish picking up orange flickers from the fire and incorporating them into the natural pattern of the wood, much like how her pink blush looked at home on the skin of her cheeks. When she looked back at Lain’s face, the look in his eyes startled her cheeks into exposing the red and blood burning beneath them. His eyes sparked again. She hurriedly looked back down.

“I can’t say that I show everything I feel,” she said, untucking her hair from behind her ear, which she hadn’t even realised she’d tucked in the first place. It looked terrible like that – she needed a proper frame.

“Of course,” he said slowly, deeper than usual, but still light, soft, and at odds with the sharpness of his eyes. They were still staring at her when she looked up. 

Lain’s mood slipped downwards into a different sort of descent – not a slow fall to the depths of the sea, but a run downhill propelled more by gravity than stamina, feet slamming into the ground with wobbly compulsion, head tipped forward, arms outstretched, fingers catching the wind. He could see the slope flattening ahead, and hoped that his propulsion would keep him careening past it until he got to the next slope, just within his view.

~*~

“Thank you for dropping me home,” Drew said, pausing with her seatbelt half off.

The dark driveway of her flat looked cold and suddenly shabby to her. Lain would have agreed with her, have and offered to tear out the plant that may or may not have been privet, growing just beside the front door.

“It was a pleasure,” he said.

She let the seatbelt slip through her hand and ping itself upright, then leant over the hand brake and aimed a kiss at his cheek, hitting his lips, instead. His lips were soft and gentle, despite their firm hold on hers, which tensed and pursed into a tight bud, her breath seething up through her constricting chest. His firmness waned and faltered, but she didn’t pull away, and just hung there against his mouth, like she was connected by a hook. As her breathing started to soften, puffing against his face in steadier bursts, he opened his mouth and sucked at her bottom lip until her own mouth opened. His hand moved to cradle the back of her head, the thick, hairsprayed hair resisting any attempt to thread his fingers through it, but allowing his hand to flatten it to her head.

He was afraid to break the contact, in case her thoughts unstuck themselves from the wetness of their lips and recoiled through the door and up her front steps, so he pushed slightly closer to her, the gentlest, most innocuous of pressures. With a soft, muffled squeak and a shiver, she allowed the kiss to lengthen and deepen, until, suddenly, all the softness seemed to snap out of her, and she pried herself away from him.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said quietly, the hoarseness of her voice sounding like an admonition for what she’d been doing.

As her head slid back and out of his grasp, he reached for her, latching his hand to her shoulder, his fingertips pressing just hard enough to convey urgency.

“Stay,” he said, his voice just as smooth as ever, perhaps even smoother, if not for the whine hitched to it.

“I – my neighbours will see,” she said haltingly, but made no further move away from him, perhaps even moving slightly closer.

His eyes batted towards her front door, standing in the warm glow of the outside light she’d left on, then back to her. He was biting his already moist bottom lip.

“Alright, you can come in, but we’re only going to kiss,” she said, her hardened jaw making her voice sound exasperated.

“Of course,” he said graciously, and released his hold on her shoulder so he could take the key out of the ignition.

When they got out, they watched each other’s heads over the roof of the car, and he followed her up the rest of the driveway. His shoulder bumped against hers as they walked, until he encircled her arm in the crook of his elbow, laying his cheek against her shoulder. 

She managed to unlock the door, though not without wondering if her key had been replaced with someone else’s. Then she led him down a short hallway, past a door through which he glimpsed a green-quilted double bed that would have matched his eyes perfectly and made him even harder to resist, but, alas, she led him through the next doorway, past a tall bookshelf with books stacked in a beautiful array of directions, to a golden cream coloured couch, its bulges of stuffed cushions looking like they might swallow unsuspecting recliners.

She detached her arm from his and gestured for him to sit, and he obliged, gazing expectantly at her as she followed suit. He shifted the five centimetre gap she’d left between them closed, until their thighs touched through his navy trousers and her pale blue pencil skirt.

When he kissed her again, she copied the way he had sucked on her lip, and ran her fingers down his ears and neck, because she'd read somewhere that it felt good. His hands stayed at her shoulders and waist, and her muscles and jaw relaxed, if only slightly. 

~*~

Well. Wasn’t this appropriate. Or unoriginal, depending on how you looked at it. Ember decided it was definitely unoriginal, but without the misunderstood goodwill the original had contained.

In the middle of her kitchen floor, a wedding topper sat, the woman with red hair and the man with blond hair. He even had a little pompadour, which she smiled fondly at, despite it all. Surrounding the couple were other wedding toppers, but they were split in half – a solo man, a solo woman – and were facing away, their gormless gazes radiating out in a circle that managed to convey the contempt and ignorance intended. She kicked them all over and picked up the wedded duo, giving them a friendly stare before setting them on top of the microwave, so that they could see all and all could see them.

She knew that Lain would not have broken into her house just to do that, so she walked in a cautious circle, treading over the halved wedding toppers, and frowned at the spotless kitchen, without a scuff on the tiles or a curtain untwitched. She felt her stomach flipping, as if it could hide.

She swung the yellow fridge open, almost snapping its hinges backwards, and peered at the contents. It looked suspiciously dark. A packet of ham should not be black. Nor should its plastic casing be melted into a frowning shape.

After pulling the damn thing out of the fridge and flinging it into the rubbish bin, she lunged at the pantry and rifled through its contents, but found nothing that was _ obviously _ out of the ordinary. So she started opening jars and bottles. The pop of the new jam jar’s lid accompanied its sweet, untampered smell. The sauce, however. Black clumps within the red, deftly hidden from outside view, but all too obvious from above. She didn’t bother finding out if they were burnt pieces of sauce or something else, and the bottle landed on top of the charred ham.

When she was fairly sure that the six levels of her pantry were uncontaminated, save the sauce and a Tupperware container full of ash, she moved to the cabinets, tumbling through the oven racks, measuring containers, pots and pans. All seemed normal, except for the ceramic base of a pot. She pulled it out and inspected it, and let out a squeak that was almost a shriek. He’d burnt a hole through it. Sure, she’d done that to one of her mum’s pots, but she’d been thirteen. 

She swung the pot downwards, and the rattling din of the crash heightened her anger in the best kind of way as she let it seethe out of her.

A thudding to her left, descending, getting closer, and then, framed in the doorway of this treacherous room, Qianbei stood, a heavy breathing mess of concern, fear, day-old hairspray and pyjamas. He stared at the pot on the ground, half its base now crumpled and sifting into the cracks between the tiles, with the little cake-people scattered around like bowling pins.

“This one was definitely him!” She thrust a finger in his direction, as if he’d the gall to deny it.

“What happened?” he asked, the remnants of sleep clawing at his voice.

“He made a mean spirited and completely unhelpful display on the floor, with us in the middle,” she pointed to the wedding topper on top of the microwave, “and everyone else looking away, and – and! he burnt the ham and the sauce and that pot!” She pointed at the pot on the floor, stung by how pitiful it all sounded in her mouth.

“It’s not as bad as the graffiti,” he said with a smile that was somehow bleak and positive at the same time.

“Yes,” she said, pausing. “But…now I’m not sure if there’s anything else he’s done. I’ve looked through all the kitchen.”

“Let’s hope he confined himself to one room, lah,” he said, though his mouth twisted in doubt as he stared at the crumbled pot. He looked at Ember, who was breathing so sharply that her shoulders rose with each inhale, and said, “It’s too early to be up on a weekend, anyway. Come back to bed and we’ll clean all this up later.”

She glared at the black-stricken tiles beneath her feet, wincing at how her slippers seemed to be crunching the ash further into their apricot-cream surfaces. Going back to bed seemed incomprehensible to her darting mind; she wasn’t sure the firey little messengers in her brain would stop flinging thoughts around just because she’d lain down. Lain…no – she did not want to perform any verb that had anything to do with him.

Qianbei stepped delicately over and around the debris, and tipped his eyes towards her, a soft smile quirking his lips. He slid a hand up her arm and under the sleeve of her cotton dressing gown. Her shoulder was warm and not scalding like he expected. She pulled at the collar of his singlet until he leant down to her un-high-heeled level and their lips met, hot and wet and deep right away.

Her hands slid down his chest, clawing slightly, until they got to the drawstring of his pants. She pulled it, yanking his hips closer to hers and making him sigh. Much of his weight started to settle on her, so she broke the kiss and said,

“Okay, bed,” and dragged him by the drawstring across the kitchen and up the stairs, kicking the little judging people aside as she went.

He followed her, walking slowly so the pull of the drawstring would remain taut, stepping through the clear path she’d made and up the stairs. Her lips hit his before his back hit the bed, and he kicked the tangled covers aside as his mouth was attacked. The nightdress, singlet and trousers were soon draped across the floor. Ember reached over to her dressing table drawer for the one cover allowed. Then she stopped, clutching the plastic packet, breathing sharp and acidic again, the deepness that lust had given it disappearing.

“The extent is much worse than the kitchen,” she said, turning back to Qianbei and showing him the packet.

He took it from her and peered inside. Each condom had been burnt individually. Her rage squealed out of her again, while he just wanted to cry a little. Left with their naked slide of skin, her burning eyes and his dejected smile, they decided their only option was to trust in their monogamy and not do anything that would result in nappies in their teak rubbish bins and toys strewn over the gold-woven living room rug.

~*~

“What the hell have you done?” Vincent barked down the phone, making Lain chuckle acerbically.

“Whatever do you mean, dear Vincey?”

“Drew. She’s all distracted and jumpy and… _ grumpy _ .”

Lain laughed outright, then said sweetly, “She’s not grumpy with _ me _ .”

“Right,” Vincent said, hesitating, now unsure if he really did want to know what Lain had done.

“Don’t worry, Vincey. If I had done something to her, she’d be waltzing through the crime scenes singing to herself and putting flowers in the criminals’ hair.”

Vincent frowned, not liking the multiple images that conjured up. “Well, then,” he said finally. “I’ve got nothing to do, today. Do you want to…hang out?” he said the words like he was trying them out, to be judged on their suitability for future use.

“I’d love to!” Lain said. “Even if you are a stuffy brat who thinks I’m poisoning your workmate.”

“Good,” Vincent said, deadpan. “I can show you where I live, if you want.”

“Really?” Lain gushed.

“Yes.” Vincent didn't disguise his sudden regret. “Well. There’s a park nearby. On Cavernell Street in Eden Terrace. Meet me there and we can get some fresh air or something.”

“Okay!” Lain skipped upstairs to change into something more leisurely stroll appropriate than his thousand dollar trousers, then took a look at the dark purple, almost black material. Biting his lip, he decided to leave them on. “I’ll see you later,” he said, before hanging up.

Vincent gulped and wondered if he’d imagined that tone, like the soft rake of fingertips across his skull, not that he’d ever felt that before.

~*~

“I thought you said you wanted to get some fresh air,” Lain said, stopping a few metres short of Vincent and catching that smirk on the other man’s lips.

Vincent was leaning against a rock structure almost as tall as him, back flat to the rough grey surface, but somehow his spine seemed more fluid, posture more relaxed than usual. Grey smoke was blowing out of his lips and the little white stick between his fingers.

“I thought you liked burning things,” he said.

“I like no disgusting things,” Lain said.

Vincent rolled his eyes. His hand hovered in the air, crooked at the wrist, the trail of smoke dancing up into the sky in twisting, curving patterns. It was the most frivolous thing Lain had ever seen him do, and it may have been…a little compelling. But then he brought the damn thing to his lips and sucked in a drag, squinting his lips and eyes in that way they all did, showing all the wrinkles they were giving themselves. The sound lanced through Lain like the smoke was curdling his own lungs.

“I thought it’d help me cope with you better,” Vincent said darkly.

“Thanks,” came Lain’s sour reply. “You don’t do that often, do you?”

“No,” Vincent said, almost offended by the suggestion. “I have self-control.”

“You sure do,” Lain said, kicking at the grass and almost uprooting it.

Vincent walked over to the nearest rubbish bin, took one last drag, and stubbed out the cigarette, still long enough to cause an addict heartbreak at the waste. Lain leant his own back against the rock, watching Vincent steadily as he reapproached. There was something about Lain's ostensibly calm manner that spoke of anything but calmness, a hum emanating from him as he tilted his head up, bit his lip, crossed his arms. Vincent settled next to him, but the rock felt rougher than before, pockmarks and sharp angles digging into his back.

“So,” Lain said. “Where are these living quarters of yours?”

Vincent pointed across the park, over the expanse of green grass and more large, grey, pointless, knobbly rocks, to an apartment building of about fifteen floors, jutting up into the stark blue sky.

“It’s very oblong.” Lain watched it as if it might do something interesting. 

Vincent just nodded, arms folded behind his back, making a horizontal rod between the small of his back and the rock. He let his eyes settle on Lain tentatively. When Lain looked back at him, his eyes fled to the building. He made no move towards it, however.

“Are we going to go in?” Lain asked, pursing his lips.

“No.” Vincent looked at his nails as though he could possibly be interested in them.

“I thought that was the point of me coming here,” Lain said, disappointment making his voice harden.

“I thought it was to hang out,” Vincent said.

“Yes, but in your apartment. Not staring at it from afar.”

“Why’re you so eager to see where I live?”

“You made me expectant.” Lain clenched his fist against the rock and used it to propel himself off the rough surface.

“Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.” Vincent almost sounded flat and expressionless, but he didn’t quite manage to suppress a slight shake in his voice, like the wobble of an ankle that ends up flooring a runner.

“You’ve seen my house so many times. You’re just scared.” Lain didn’t bother keeping the emotion out of his voice – that would’ve only stored it up for a later time; it never just went away.

“I’m not scared,” Vincent said, folding his arms and staring away from Lain.

Lain grabbed his arm, fingertips digging in slightly, and said in a low voice in his ear, “You’re scared; you’re scared; you’re scared; you’re scared.”

Instead of wrenching his arm away from Lain, Vincent turned his head slowly and stared him square in the eyes. Their faces were so close that Lain could see the rainbow of colours that made up Vincent’s grey irises, and Vincent could see the tightness of Lain’s skin, stretched over his tense expression.

“It’s apartment 68, on the 6 th floor,” Vincent said precisely. “You can come and visit, sometime.”

“I will,” Lain said, hesitating with his nails still grazing Vincent's arm, unable to move without the alarmed motion detectors that usually surrounded Vincent.

Gradually, his grip softened, fingertips relaxing and freeing Vincent’s skin. Slowly, as if it wanted to slink away unnoticed, his hand eased away and dropped at his side, not without leaving five trails of tingling behind.

Vincent coughed. “Shall we go for a walk?”

Lain looked around them. The park was just a circle of mostly flat land, no pathway, few trees, and those rocks. A walk around it seemed pointless unless you were a dog, but Lain shrugged and said, “Okay.”

They strolled next to each other, keeping decidedly out of step with each other and staring at the ‘scenery’ as though it had something to offer, until Lain said, “You still smell gross, you know.”

Vincent eyed him and raised an eyebrow. “Oh.”

“If you’re stressed, you could try yoga.”

Vincent winced.

“Or, you know,” Lain tilted his head, eyes resting on Vincent’s far shoulder, “sex.”

A terrible, scalding, nauseating blush spread like a rash over Vincent’s cheeks, and he cleared his throat.

“Doesn’t seem to work for you,” he managed to get out, hoping it would shut him up.

“It does, too,” Lain said, lips pinching sourly.

“Right.” Vincent rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“I told you,” Lain said, gesturing at the air. “Nothing happened.”

Vincent paused for a moment, listening to his own footsteps, and delayed them a fraction, to pull them out of step with Lain’s.

“Well, that’s what you get,” he said, staring into the distance and glaring at a middle aged couple across the green field. 

“Whatever,” Lain said pompously. “Kissing’s still fun.”

“That’s nice.” It was clear that Vincent did not think it was nice.

“How far have you been?” Though Lain's tone was light, the question shocked even himself.

Vincent’s glare spun around to Lain, his blush raging away again.

“None of your business,” he said.

Lain frowned at the ground, then pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and sucked on it thoughtfully, while Vincent’s eyebrows furrowed at him accusingly.

“I’m not embarrassed for me,” Vincent said. “I’m embarrassed for you.”

Lain released his lip, now softer and darker, and said, “Yes, yes, I’m a whore and it’s terrible.” He turned to Vincent, eyes narrowed in a gaze that prickled. “ _ I _ don’t mind that _ you’re _ a virgin.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened. “Yes. That’s why you tried to persuade me to – unvirgin – myself.”

Lain laughed, underisive, but Vincent still suspected a morsel of mockery. He placed a soothing hand on his shoulder (though it only made Vincent’s posture stiffen further), and said, “I didn’t mean it like that. If you find the fleshly desires of other people repulsive, then stay away.”

“Thanks for your permission.” Vincent said, still rankled. “At least you never accused me of faking it.”

“That would just be nasty,” Lain said, then giggled at the prim way the word sounded dirty in his mouth.

“What?” Vincent growled, immediately suspicious of the laughter.

“Stop accusing me of being mean in your mind.” Lain was only half serious.

He squeezed Vincent’s shoulder, who was still eyeing him warily, and felt the knots in his muscles. But, he had to concede, for all his laconic talk, his limbs felt just as tense, as if ready to pounce on something. 

“How’re your studies?” Vincent asked, not caring how the attempt at small talk sliced so noticeably through the tension, probably making it worse.

“Fine, I guess.” Lain shrugged, then paused, his jaw clenching. “Fuck. I’ve got an essay due on Monday.”

“How much have you written?”

“Nothing…”

“How much have you researched?” The question seemed pointless.

“Nothing…”

“But it’s Saturday.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Lain was looking bewilderedly in front of him, the apartment buildings now looking like stacks of paper.

“You should probably go and start it,” Vincent said, ashamed at how disappointed he sounded.

“It’s alright,” Lain said, walking on with more determination. “We’ll finish our walk, first.”

Vincent didn’t argue; it was Lain’s own fault if he failed. He did look at him with concern, however; as his speed of walking decreased, his rate of speech increased, and his movements became jumpier.

“It’ll only take me about three hours to write the damn thing,” he was saying, gesticulating sharply. “And an hour to plan, tops. So! Research a bit tonight and most of tomorrow, and write it on Monday! Easy!” He whacked Vincent’s arm a little harder than he’d intended, for emphasis.

“Really.” Vincent looked at him sceptically.

“I’ve done it tons of times before!”

“Of course you have.”

“I have.” Lain gripped Vincent’s arm and pulled him closer. “I’ll get an A. Watch me.”

Vincent tried to keep his face unemotional as he stared him in the eyes, but he sounded far too earnest when he said, “Look after yourself, alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Lain said, releasing his grip and waving his hand dismissively.

While Lain kicked at the dirt, a wild grin on his face and light in his eyes, Vincent gulped, trying to swallow down a feeling that was rising like bile. It wasn’t entirely bad; it even had a warmth to it, but it made his head spin and his chest ache, and he was sure he wasn’t designed to house such a feeling in the first place. What was worse, he was fairly sure he wanted to hug Lain.

Lain smiled brightly, and started nattering on about how beautiful the sun was, for it really did seem extra beautiful today, almost worth the eye damage of looking directly at it, and he could never fathom how it could be so hot and dangerous, yet constant, reliable and life-giving at the same time. One day, it would be closer, and its betrayal of its purpose and its dependants would make it even lovelier, and would show us humans, once and for all, how insignificant we all are.

Vincent wanted to say something calming, but the gaps between Lain’s words were closing like faulty elevator doors, and he kept getting left behind, seconds off being squashed. How could he have helped, anyway? Calmness seemed like something to read about in books, not experience himself, like other countries or petty arguments with parents.

~*~

Ember and Qianbei slid into their bronze, girly little car that still managed to engulf their garage. Her hair hid no extensions and was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she avoided looking in any of the mirrors, though they seemed to surround and close in on her, showing her the greasy fronds on her head. She scowled over at Qianbei and his clean puff of white hair, then decided it was a good thing that he had washed his hair the day before. She would have hated to be reminded of Lain’s treachery every time she looked at her darling.

Instead, she thought of the new bottles of shampoo and conditioner she would soon be buying, plus a new pot, flowers for the dining table, and, quite significantly, one new curtain for the spare bedroom. That is, if they could find the same material. If not, an entire new set would be required. Oh, yes. And new condoms.

Qianbei was staring down past his knees, an uneasy twist to his mouth. He hesitated, dread seeping into both of them like a noxious gas through their open car windows.

“What?” Ember urged him out of his stillness, and he looked up and at her.

“The brake,” he said, and leant down, wriggling an arm into the space where the pedals were, and pulled out a rectangle of rubber that wasn’t quite rectangular anymore, lumps and distortions making it look like it had had a stroke. “It’s not even attached to the car anymore.”

Ember stared at it, lip curling and nose scrunching up, then kicked out at the bottom of the glove compartment.


	8. Chapter 8

Lain sat in the law computer room, hunched over a keyboard in an unflattering position and scanning the article in front of him for anything at all related to his argument. His reading speed had more than doubled since yesterday; he told himself it was the adrenaline of having a purpose and an impending deadline. 

While his mind was absorbed in his competitive sportsmanlike reading, a hand landed lightly on his left shoulder and trailed along to his right. He swallowed down the thought that, whoever it was, he wanted them, and found that especially easy when he looked up to see Todd. 

“You look terrible,” Todd said with surly affection. “Are you having another one of your… _ things _ ?” His hand fluttered in the air.

Lain scowled at him. “I’m fine. Leave me alone; I have to finish this by tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, that one,” Todd said, dropping down to sit in the desk chair next to Lain and resting his elbow on the desk, inclining forwards. “I’ve still got to write the last part. But I suppose you’ve barely started yours.”

“Uh huh, you know me so well,” Lain said, eyes back on the computer screen.

“If you can afford to carry on like that, whatever,” Todd said with a mixture of admiration and envy, and continued to gaze at him solidly for a moment before switching on the nearest computer.

They worked in silence for a while, and Todd became more and more wary of trying to start up a coveted conversation. Lain’s tendons looked and felt like they were going to snap, but it didn’t make sense. He’d been in this situation many times before, and he was usually worryingly blaze about it. 

"Um," Todd ventured, hand darting into the air, then dropping to his thigh. 

Lain looked up at him, fingers frozen into angular claws over his keyboard. He raised his eyebrows, then they hunched over those wide, bright eyes and he turned back to the screen. 

"Look, I can get you something for that," Todd said. "Like, 'medicine'."

Lain turned back to him, lips crumpling and bunching inwards. 

"I can get you legal stuff," Todd spread his hands. "What psychiatrists give. It's fine."

Lain pointed a shaking finger at the doorway, past rows of computers and the curved backs of the studious. The corridor outside was grey, and half the fluorescent light overhead had gone out. But Lain's eyes were like acid, glistening green, searing through Todd's skin, so he fled. 

~*~

Vincent hefted himself off the couch at the sound of the rapid knocks that may not have been especially loud, but were so sharp and forceful that the sound seemed to travel down the walls and to the living area (which was in the same room as the dining area, kitchen and entrance way, such was the efficiency of his living space).

“Hello, Lain,” he said as he opened the door, trying to snap up every speck of emotion and shove them back in his heart, and managing to only show a mild discomfort.

“You’re not surprised enough.” Lain frowned at him, tipping onto the balls of his feet and back down a few times.

“Who else would it be?” Vincent asked, then regretted the revelation, then remembered that it fit perfectly with his reputation.

“Still. I didn’t even let you know I was coming.”

“I guessed you’d come about now.” Vincent remembered to step aside and let Lain in, whose eyes darted this way and that, taking everything in, legs straining from the effort of walking slowly.

“You’re just pretending,” he said, turning back to Vincent. “You _ are _ surprised.”

“The only reason you didn’t come sooner is because you had that essay to do. Now you’ve handed it in, you’re desperate to come and annoy me in my own home for the first time.”

Lain scowled at him. “I wasn’t _ going _ to annoy you, but!” He announced the last word with petulance.

“Hey,” Vincent said, grabbing at Lain’s shoulder, then almost recoiled away. “I’m supposed to be the grumpy one, remember?”

“I’m not grumpy!” Lain folded his arms and pouted, knowing full well that was an oxymoron and not caring one whit.

“Fine, then.” Vincent spread his arms. “What do you want to do?”

“Well. Ah-“ Lain stared about him, suddenly sure this white box would be too small for him. There were two doors to the left, but they were closed with a seamlessness that would’ve been a pity to break. His eyes narrowed as he turned to observe the kitchen, imagining it would fold like a children’s pop-up book into something bigger and less white and grey. “What travesties to human taste buds do you have in here?” he asked, marching towards the pantry, but Vincent’s arm shot out and connected with the bench top, cutting Lain’s trajectory off at the waist.

“I’ll not have you snooping around my cupboards and criticising my eating habits,” he said, stiffening his arm, and Lain tried to pluck at it.

“I’m just concerned,” Lain said, raking his eyes over Vincent’s stern face. “You look a bit peaky.” (He looked as he always did, but he always looked peaky.)

“I’m fine,” Vincent said sharply. “You’re one to talk. You look like you haven’t slept since I saw you last.”

“I slept a bit,” Lain looked up at the ceiling. “Your roof is painted the same white as your walls. It doesn’t seem right…”

“I’m sure the property manager would love to hear about it,” Vincent said.

“Oh, how terrible for you – at the whim of someone who doesn’t even live here!” Vincent wanted to say that it was better than being at Lain’s whim, but Lain continued on. “I know it’s normal, these days, but I feel a little sad that you don’t own your own place. Don’t you wish you did? Oh! I should buy you a place!” Vincent balked. “Nowhere that’s leasehold – that’d be pointless and awful-“

“You’re not buying me a place." Vincent tone cut through Lain’s rambling like a knife through candyfloss, only getting sticky strings of pink fluff stuck to itself.

“Really, I want to! You’re so unhelpful with my quest to squander my inheritance! If I bought you somewhere, you’d just live there – you’d be too afraid to waste it.”

“Don’t buy one!” Vincent almost shouted.

“You can’t stop me! It’s my own money. You’ll see. You’ll prefer it. You can paint your walls all black, if you want, though I wouldn’t recommend _ that _ . I did that once and it swallowed me up like a black hole!”

“I like my white walls _ just fine _ ,” Vincent butted in.

“It’s not a big deal!”

“It is!”

“You’re just too proud! Too proud to let yourself be the slightest bit comfortable or let yourself be happy!” Lain stamped his foot on the white kitchen tiles, and, because it felt far too good, despite looking like a toddler, he did it a few more times. His face felt hot, and not in a good way, and his jaw was melding into a clenched position and just would not relax.

Vincent watched as his face went red and his eyes blinked rapidly, looking like they were trying to escape. He grabbed a glass of water off the bench and flung its contents into Lain's face. Lain now scrunched up his eyes, hanging there for a moment in shock before wiping the water out of them and blinking the rest away. A little still clung to his eyelashes, making them look darker than before.

“This shirt shouldn’t get wet,” he said weakly, dabbing at it with his bare hand.

Vincent retrieved a dishtowel from its hook by the sink and handed it to him. Lain took the towel and dabbed at his shirt, listening to his heartbeat slowing.

“Sorry,” Vincent said, half reluctantly, as he watched Lain mop himself up.

“It’s fine.” Lain bit his lip. As he released it, red and shining, his voice became softer. “It’s so hard.”

“Are you okay?” Vincent asked.

Lain made a non-committal “Mmm-mmm,” noise, accompanied by much blinking.

“Maybe you should sit down.” Vincent gestured to the couch at the far end of the room, and almost touched Lain’s shoulder in an attempt to usher him towards it.

Lain stayed put, swaying, and said, “I think I need to force myself to sleep.”

“Do you want a sleeping pill?” Vincent hovered while Lain hesitated.

“Ah, what does it do?” Lain asked, some of the colour gone from his cheeks and bile rising up his throat, ready to expel the imminent intruder.

“I’ve only taken it once, but it didn’t have any side effects,” Vincent said. “Just made me sleep for six hours.”

He walked to one of the side doors and popped in for a moment. Lain only saw a tall, thin strip of shadowy white gleaming between the door and the frame. Vincent came out with a small medicine container and extended it towards Lain. Lain took it, holding it lightly between his thumb and forefinger, and scrutinised the writing on the bottle. Vincent’s doctor was called Grant Dale. 

“Thanks,” he said, still not sure he would take them. “If you don’t hear from me in a couple of days, come and find me.”

“Right,” Vincent said, his alarm compressing into the pinch of his lips.

~*~

The sleeping pills did not, after all, cause the endless will to sleep that Lain had feared, and his brain did not slow to that interminable crawl through murky pastures and rancid swamps. The taste of baking soda in his mouth was almost comfortable, compared to that. He sent Vincent a text to let him know that all was well, then checked his face in the unforgiving bathroom mirror.

Yes. Sleep _ was _ worth something, after all. Was a brilliant essay really worth those bags his eyes had been carrying, collecting every hour in their dark curves? It probably wasn’t brilliant, anyway. Just a hyperactive mess of words, jostling each other out of the way, instead of sharing the page as a team. Reading the lecturer’s comments would be depressing and useless, so he decided to just glance at the grade. Surely it was a pass. Surely.

But that didn’t matter right now. Next Tuesday’s essay would not herald a repeat of last weekend’s behaviour. Even if he left it to the last minute (and he wouldn’t), he would write it with the inappropriate laconic mindset his lecturers should all expect from him. Not that any of them remembered him.

~*~

Drew, Lain decided, was calming, as long as he didn’t lean over their game of snakes and ladders and try to kiss her. Or think about it. Or any related activities…

He scrunched his eyes closed and took in a few deep, slow breaths. It seemed so wrong not to let himself get carried away with things, especially when she, herself, was skipping her yellow plastic circle over the squares with childish glee, lips beautifully spread around her teeth, then making a “whee!” sound as she careened down a snake, as though there were a prize at the bottom and not the infinitesimal number nine.

“Relax, you’re winning,” she said, flicking him lightly on the shoulder.

He stared at his red circle, with twenty and twenty two on either side, and said, “Oh! I am, too. But for how long?”

“Well! If you’re anything like me, you’ll hit that snake right there pretty soon.”

She slid her finger down its green scales, landing with her circle and bumping it off the board. Flinching, she retrieved the circle and placed it firmly back on number nine, then tossed him the dice, which tumbled down his shirt, his hands grasping at nothing.

“You have terrible aim!” she said, the lilt of her giggle draining it of any insult.

“I have good aim with some things,” he said pompously.

“Like what?” she pursed her lips and blinked at him.

“Like…I can shoot a gun quite well…and-“

“ _ You _ shouldn’t be let near a gun!” she interjected.

“-I can locate certain parts of the anatomy _ very _ well.” His smile could’ve charmed his way into heaven.

All of her blood cells seemed to rush to her cheeks, exposing their deep red colour and fanning out across her face, while she said, “You can?” It sounded a little more hopeful than she would’ve liked, and she was pretty sure the blood cells were lighting fires on her skin, now.

She started to imagine him finding parts of her…parts that she was half certain didn’t exist or were broken, unless she was missing some instinct or magic knowledge. His own thoughts were a more detailed version, sifting through the various types of touch she could possibly like. 

He blinked until it all dissolved, and said earnestly, “I have an ex who had trouble.”

“Oh,” was all Drew could get out.

“And Vincey’s a virgin, too.”

The blood cells fled from her face and scrambled into her heart, making it thud rapidly to keep up with the influx.

“He told you that?” she asked quietly.

“More like…I guessed and then watched his reaction.”

“Was he mad?”

“He’s always mad.” He shrugged and smiled, eyes crinkling into half-moon shapes, staring clear across her shoulder at something beyond his living room.

Maybe he was just brave, she wondered, and maybe that was why he knew things. No special instinct or magic.

“What I’m trying to get at,” he said, leaning forward a little and resting his forearms on his crossed legs, “is that it’s not uncommon to be a bit…reticent. And, while I can’t relate, I understand…and am willing to help. But no pressure.”

She blinked at him, stunned by his delicate frankness.

“Thank you,” she said, this time clearly. “I-“ she paused, not quite sure how she wanted to respond.

“No problem,” he said, a gentle smile on his lips, for, though he wanted her to respond then and there, he did want a particular response, and knew it wouldn’t come while she was flustered.

He rolled the dice and skipped his red circle across the ordained three squares, safe on number twenty four, in between two snakes. When he tossed the dice to her, it dipped down far too early, but she still caught it, smiling with pride that she could at least do that.

As she rolled it, she said, “Does Vincent know you hoard boardgames?”

He grinned. “Yes; he told me I was stupid, but I made him play with me, and when I beat him he threw the board in my face.”

“Um,” she stared at him, hand hovering over her chip. “Really?”

“No, that was me,” he conceded. “But! He was being _ so _ apathetic about it, but kept winning! I wanted to dent that monopoly car in his stupid head!” His fist clenched in his pant leg, but his cheeks kept pulling his mouth into a grin, reminding him that he wasn’t really mad.

Drew shook her head, laughing a little as she moved her yellow circle.

“How do you do it?” she asked. “I’m not sure I could ever get him to play board games.”

As soon as she’d said it, her mouth twisted like a traitor being interrogated for selling secrets to the enemy. She gulped and stared at the board, waiting for his response.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged breezily. “I just make a fuss until he concedes. He makes out like I’m a huge brat and he’s just doing it to shut me up, but I think, deep down, he likes being dragged out of his little bubble. His pride won’t let him admit it. But, sorry. There’s no spot behind the ear that you can pinch to make him pliant.”

“You’re just being self-deprecating,” she said, and rolled the dice gently across the board to him.

He stopped it with a tap of a finger and took his turn, smiling softly.

“He _ is _ a lot nicer than people think, though,” she said. He nodded, so she went on, “One time, we got called out to a domestic situation, to look after the kids while some other police officers dealt with the adults. I thought he was going to be indignant about it, but he was so patient with them and did whatever they wanted.”

Lain stared at the board and blinked a few times, going through the unfamiliar process of steadying his emotions. Breathe steadily, blink until your eyes are dry, keep your face blank…but not too blank, don’t think about poor little Vincey, reflected in the eyes of older Vincey, arm around a weeping child’s shoulder, eyes holding a look that Drew had clearly seen, judging by the furrowing of her brow and the biting of her lip. She didn’t understand it, but she knew that something had gone on. Mostly, she just knew that he was a good person.

“I bet he was a dear to them,” Lain said, smiling. He stopped himself from saying anything else. It wasn’t his place.

“The others wouldn’t believe me,” Drew said, staring at the dice Lain placed in her hand. “They think I’m just a softie who’ll believe anyone’s nice. But it’s not true. I don’t like Jason.” 

“Is Jason the one with the number two haircut, the cold, dead eyes of a shark and the sneer of an asshole?” Lain said as she took her turn.

She laughed. “How’d you know?”

“I met him when I went to report a crime,” he said. “Does he just hate Vincey, or everyone?”

“Not  _ everyone _ ,” she said, unthinkingly tossing him the dice.

It bounced off his nose and onto the board, so he advanced the four spaces it decreed, rubbing his nose all the while.

“Sorry.” She winced while he waved his hand dismissively. “Do you think, maybe, you have a few too many run-ins with the police?”

“Hey, that time I met you, I was the victim, and same with the time I met Jason.” He grinned as he ascended a long ladder, landing him on the top row.

“Well…I’ll just say, I think Vincent and I are probably good influences for you to have around.”

“Probably,” he said airily.

She retrieved the dice and took her turn, eyeing the nearby ladder that would put her back in the running, and said, “So, you’re bi, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, scrutinising her face for any reason he should be indignant or relaxed.

She nodded slowly, staring hard at the dice she was rolling. A six. Which would have been great, had the ladder not have been five spaces away.

“Me too,” she said, frowning as her yellow circle made the disappointing trek to number forty three.

“Really?” Lain exclaimed, eyes snapping from the board to her face, a wide grin on his.

“Yeah, I _ think _ so,” she said, squirming a little and keeping her frowning expression fixed downwards.

“Well! We only ever think so, don’t we? We never really know for sure.”

She looked up at him, and seriously said, “You think so.” Her sombre, scared mouth twisted into a smile.

He laughed, and she thought his eyes looked brighter than before, but without the harsh tint his brightness usually had. Something that felt a lot like relief was thrumming in his lungs.

“Of course!” he said. “But, what I mean is, these distinctions, and our ways of looking at sexuality – or anything – are all rather arbitrary, aren’t they? Yes, even the way I’m looking at it, now. We’re all just floating about each other and sometimes banging into each other and reacting, and trying to define each and every one of us with the same few words is just ludicrous, isn’t it?”

He looked at her expectantly, like a starving puppy, hoping she would say something other than, ‘but this is how I define myself!’

She said, “It does seem to be more _ chaotic _ than some would have us believe,” partly because she knew he’d like the word, and she wanted to see his excited shiver as she said it, and partly because she felt like her mind was flinging itself around in circles like a child on a sugar high. 

“It is, isn’t it?” he said, an utterly romantic look in his eyes. “How did you realise?”

“Oh,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Gradually. At first, I thought my interest was just borne out of how fetishized women are, but now I don’t think it is. And even if it is, that doesn’t make it any less real.”

“Oh, you’re lovely!” he exclaimed, leaning over the board and capturing her face in his hands like a butterfly, laying a gentle but persistent kiss on her lips.

When he knelt back on his side of the board (now partly folded, yellow and red circles spilled onto the floor), she said, blinking dazedly, “I wanted to ask you…what was it like, telling your parents?”

Lain smoothed his hair and frowned. “I didn’t really tell them. I just went out with guys and yelled at them if they tried to scold me about it. Well. Mum tried to scold me about it, and I said I wasn’t going to take moral advice from _ her _ , and Dad just looked at me with this pathetic wounded look, and when I asked what his problem was he said everything was fine.”

“Oh,” Drew gasped, placing her palm against her temple. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you worried about telling yours?” he asked.

“I’m worried about telling anyone. You’re the first one I’ve told. I’m worried…” she gulped, “that people will think I’m a slut.”

He held in a bout of laughter, just barely. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that one! People already think I’m a slut for many other reasons. But,” he leant in, his tone becoming more serious, “I know what you mean. I’m not just so damn horny that I don’t care what bits I grind against. It’s real attraction. And it _ doesn’t _ make me more susceptible to cheating.” He almost snarled the last bit, clenching his jaw and his fist.

“People think that?” she asked morosely, and he nodded sadly.

“But, whatever. It weeds out the jerks. And if your family is weird about it, maybe this’ll be good for them. Teach them that these harmless, yet oh so terrible feelings can happen to citizens as upstanding as yourself.”

“Maybe I’ll just surprise them with a girlfriend, one day,” she said, then laughed at the ludicrosity of it.

“What if you never get one?” he asked.

“It’s not like my baser feelings are any of their business, anyway…” she frowned and picked at a thread in the carpet before remembering it wasn’t hers and tucking her hand between her thigh and her calf.

“But you do want to tell them, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me about it.”

“Okay,” she conceded. “I don’t want to hide it, but I also don’t want to make a big announcement or instigate a discussion about it.”

“Then…make some offhand comment about how attractive some girl is.”

“How mortifying!”

He wrinkled his nose. “Are your parents really stuffy, or something?”

“Not especially,” she sighed. “I wouldn’t blame all of my issues on them. But I never even want to talk about guys with them, even though they obviously want me to. And I’ve heard them say mean things about gay and bi people before. Not hateful – they’re very tolerant, I’ll give them that – but they still don’t understand. They think it’s weird. They’ll probably just think I’m trying to prove a point, or something. Oh, it’s too hard! I’m just going to wait until it becomes a real issue, like if I get a girlfriend, or something.”

She flicked Lain’s red circle at him, and he caught it, holding it up in triumph, then pressed it against her nose.

“Poor, sweet Drew,” he said in a soft, sing-song voice. “I never realised you were so anxious.”

“How come you’re so free and easy?” she said with mock jealousy, then they both burst out laughing, eyebrows raised up and outwards, until tears collected in the corners of their eyes like troubled children at street corners.


	9. Chapter 9

“You know what?” Todd said, swaying as he slammed his glass on the table.

“You’re sloshed?” Ember giggled as she sipped from her wine glass.

“No,” he said petulantly. “Lain-“

“King of all bastards!” She raised her glass in a toast, ignoring his glare.

“No! He’s a scared, stupid little boy!”

“He’s not scared of destroying my possessions,” she grumbled. “Today I found my butterfly clips all burnt and melted. What a week!”

“I don’t care!” he cut her off. “You know what he said to me, today?”

“That you’re a gigantic baby?”

“No! He said that he’ll never give me an inch because I’ll take a mile. What the hell? He doesn’t _ know _ that.”

“He knows that you want him too much,” she said. “That’s scary for a normal person, let alone a messed up guy like him. I mean, look how nasty he’s been about my engagement!”

Todd turned slowly to her and narrowed his eyes with sudden sharpness. “Maybe he loves you.”

With great difficulty, Ember swallowed her mouthful without spraying red, sour smelling liquid over everything (most importantly, her clothes). “Ewwww!”

“I’m serious! You’re, like, the most important and stable relationship in his life right now.”

“No way,” she said, gulping a new, truly sour taste out of her mouth. “What about Yelizabeta?”

“She cramps his style.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She wrinkled her nose at him.

“She’s still not lover material. More like she’s his counsellor.”

“Okay, then.” She smiled a soft, sinister smile, as if to say, _ you’re making me say this _ . “What about dear _ Vincey _ ? They’d have really cute, uptight, psycho test tube babies.”

Todd’s face contorted in horror. “Don’t be foul!”

“So I’m your only competition, am I?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

He hesitated. “Yes. So watch out.”

He smiled sweetly at her and she bared her teeth.

~*~

Vincent paced in front of the courtyard a couple of times, then forced himself to sit down on the edge of a bench and keep still, shoving his hands into his pockets. He glared at a wad of takeaway rubbish next to him. Perhaps he was glad he’d never studied, save the classes at police college and the subsequent ones in his probationary period. It wasn’t the derelict nature of the grounds or the loose way the students shouldered their bags. It was their vacant expressions and ceaseless natter, the former intensifying and latter dissipating when called upon by a lecturer. It was probably the perfect place for Lain to practice his sport of charming idiots, though.

Something disconcertingly warm jostled his shoulder, and he was about to brush it away when Lain appeared in front of him, a slight skip to his step.

“Vincey!” he said, hovering by the bench.

Vincent stood up and said, “Ready to go?”

“Sure am,” he said, eyes twinkling, but not sparking, thankfully. He turned around and addressed the scowling face of Todd, loitering just beyond their bubble. “I’m off to lunch. Have fun studying.” His cool tone threw the warmth of his previous words into relief.

“Don’t leave your essay to the last minute, again,” Todd said. As he turned to go, glaring at Vincent all the while, a small white packet fell out of his low-rise sneaker. Vincent quirked his eyebrows at it; when Todd followed his gaze, his eyes almost fled his face. He shoved it back into the shoe, then hurried off, only turning back to give Lain and Vincent a sour glance when he was at the other end of the courtyard.

“Those were drugs.” Vincent gave Lain a look that seemed to incriminate him by association.

Lain chewed his lip, then rolled his eyes. “Stupid Todd. He’s just a sulky child.”

“Why do you hang out with him?” Vincent asked, standing up and walking to Lain’s side, trying to make himself sound only mildly curious, though the tightness in his voice was obvious.

“I don’t hang out with him. He hangs out with me. And ignores me when I tell him I’m not interested.” Lain pouted in Todd’s direction and walked the other way, leaving Vincent to hurry behind him.

Vincent screwed up his face. “He likes you like that?”

Lain laughed. “It’s a common affliction.”

“I’m sure,” Vincent said darkly.

“You know what he did?” Lain slowed until he was at Vincent’s side and held his upper arm lightly. Vincent looked at him with alarm while his skeleton melded into an even more rigid position. “He started taking cocaine, because he wanted to see what it was like to be bipolar, like me. Is that romantic?” Lain said acerbically.

“No,” Vincent said as though he knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Didn’t think so.” Lain smiled brightly, then his hand slid down and off Vincent’s arm. “Anyways, I told him he was an idiot and to stop, and he did. Ostensibly.”

“Ostensibly?”

Lain shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going on in his head. But I’m sure I can’t trust him.”

“You don’t _ have _ to let him hang around you, then,” Vincent said.

“I don’t let him. He just does it. No matter how dismissive I am of him. Or how clearly I state that I’m never going to so much as kiss him.”

“I could get you a restraining order.”

Lain laughed, squeezing Vincent’s arm again, then said, “Where shall we go for lunch?”

“Don’t pretend I care,” Vincent said.

~*~

Drew peered down the locker room at Vincent, watching him shove his belongings into his cubbyhole. His movements seemed gentler than lately, like he wouldn’t even be making a dent in the wall behind the locker. Perhaps she could stand in front of his glare without getting vaporised, this time.

“Hey, Vincent,” she said casually, though she almost tiptoed over to him. “You’re finished, now?”

“Yes.” He turned and considered her for a moment, which only made her squirm – nothing else.

As he shut his locker and twirled the combination with a sharp snap of his wrist, she said, “Me too. Some of the others are going to a bar nearby for drinks. Maybe we should go.”

Vincent gaped at her. No one ever asked him to go places with them, except Lain, and occasionally Drew. He thought he’d made it clear it was a futile endeavour.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll gossip about Lain to you.”

He frowned at his shoes, which looked clumps of old tyre. Could he endure more of his workmates, just to glean something to use against Lain? Why not? It wasn’t like they could stop him from leaving if he got too annoyed.

“Sure,” he said, spreading his arms and letting them slap down against his thighs.

“Great!” she almost squeaked, but managed to prevent herself from doing the skipping jump that her legs wanted to.

He waited while she retrieved her bag from her locker, and watched the other staff doing the same or waiting by the door. No Jason. Thank _ God _ . They all eyed him with alarm when he followed Drew in their direction, and Santha’s eyes fell on Drew in disdain.

She winced under the stares and said, “So! I _ will _ come, and Vincent’s coming, too.”

He felt he’d better back her up in some way, so nodded, and, after a moment of silence stretched tight like cling-wrap over a foul smelling container, he said, “Where are we going?”

“Down the road, to Shay’s,” Santha said, her eyes falling curiously on him.

Vincent was almost visibly excluded from the group as they filed out of the station and into the street. With his hands in his pockets, his eyes having a staring contest with the ground, and his mouth (and ears) closed, he looked like a separate traveller hoping to slip past this group and out into the clear footpath ahead. But he didn’t, and Drew fell into step with him, hoping to be some sort of bridge over the unfathomable chasm of his unsociability.

“So. Um, did you hear about Graham?” she asked.

“Yes.” He rolled his eyes, remembering the one shift he’d worked with the man.

“I thought it was a good opportunity for him,” she said, almost wounded by his disdain.

“Not for Afghanistan, though,” he said.

“Don’t be so mean!” she said, and they both nearly jumped. She recovered herself, taking in a deep breath, and said, “He’s not as bad as you say. I’m sure they’ll be very happy for the help.”

It seemed they had come to the bar, because the others were turning into a charcoal coloured shop-front with a silver sign saying ‘Shay’s’. The orange glow of the interior reminded Vincent of Lain. He felt a little sick and wanted to go back, but that would have given the impression that he felt fear instead of disdain for these people, so he followed the horde into the building and found himself sitting next to Drew as if without his volition.

“Want me to get you anything to drink?” she asked, leaning forwards against the black marble table. She winced at how eager she sounded. It wasn’t as though his whole opinion of her would be revealed in the drink he chose.

He thought for a moment. Deigning not to drink would help exclude him from the group and general human society more, but alcohol would probably make this situation a lot easier to put up with.

“Okay,” he said. Then, faced with the task of choosing which one of those meaningless bottles behind the bar, as if the typescript and the taste could sway him, he said, “You can choose which kind. Nothing expensive.”

She brightened and slid her chair back with a graceful screech, then scurried up to the bar with the others. The bottles gleamed at her and she frowned, then chose the one with the simplest bottle and label, so he’d feel like his one stipulation had been carried out. She got herself the same, then stared at it with trepidation. She never drank beer and probably didn’t like it.

She walked back to the table and handed the bottle to him. He got out his wallet, asking, “How much was it?”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, her smile fluorescent bright.

“You don’t have to pay.” He frowned.

“I know I don’t _ have _ to,” she said, then sat down next to him with finality.

Santha, sitting opposite them, was eyeing them warily, making Vincent bristle with contempt and embarrassment. He thought he knew what she was thinking – that he was cheap, and the fact that she would’ve been right was neither here nor there. Drew had a more accurate inkling of what she was thinking, and was no less embarrassed for it, turning pink and hoping the dim setting was hiding most of that.

“Hey, Vincent,” the man on the other side of him, Rick Janes, clamped him in his socialising pincers. “How’s your pyro friend?”

“Excuse me?” Vincent turned to him, tucking all of his concern into the crease in his brow.

“You know.” Rick waved his hand, then spoke in a posh voice and batted his eyelashes, “Vincey.”

Vincent almost blew poison out of his nose as he exhaled, then turned back to Drew, who was picking at the label of her beer bottle and pretending she didn’t have ears.

“Vincey!” Now a female voice called out that dreaded nickname, and, though Vincent was sure it was just his over-stressed imagination tormenting him, he still flinched. “I’m talking to you.” A hand full of orange varnished claws accompanied the voice that was clotted with venom. “Or is your new name Lain’s Bitch?”

Vincent slowly looked up at her, grey irises looking like chips of ice fanning out around his pupils, and watched as her hair seemed to wave, curl and relax in the flickering light around her.

“It most certainly is not,” he said levelly, then turned away from her as though she were a slight anomaly in his night.

Drew coloured at the sight of Ember in her towering heels, impeccably tousled, waist length hair and short yellow dress. “Lain’s my boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Ember gave her a benign smile. “My condolences.”

A small squeak fled Drew’s throat and she quickly looked at Ember’s shoulder. How could she look at her like that? With such delighted malice… She barely knew her. Drew couldn’t have understood what an opportunity she was presenting, sitting there with such bright, expectant eyes.

“I thought you were friends...ish” she said.

“He’s a viper in my laundry basket,” Ember said, then knelt down until she was at eye level with Drew. “I do feel sorry for you.” She _ almost _ sounded sorry, but that unbridled smirk gave her away.

“I’m not deluded about who he is, if that’s what you mean,” Drew said.

“Sure, sure,” Ember waved her hand as though she’d heard it all before, though she was a little surprised. It had the desired effect of making Drew look bashfully at her knees, however.

Ember tilted Drew’s chin up with one finger at her jawline, careful not to scrape her skin with her newly filed nail, and leant forward, no pressure or grip, but with a suddenness that left no room for resistance, kissing her firmly on the lips. It was possible for Drew to pull away, especially once the slide of her saliva and lip gloss registered in her mind. But she didn’t pull away. At least, not for a moment. A moment that said everything. To everyone. 

Her hands rose and she shoved at Ember’s chest and shoulders, sending her tipping backwards and knocking into Vincent’s chair. The separation was like a tear, but with no regret.

“What are you doing?” Drew demanded, her breaths coming out in heated, angry puffs that probably made her sound aroused and, damnit, that wasn’t entirely misrepresentative.

Ember just laughed as she pulled herself upright, her voice ringing in Drew’s ears, and pulled out her phone, pushing number two on her speed dial. Drew looked past her, at Vincent. He was looking disapprovingly up at the waves of ginger hair flowing down Ember's back. He didn’t look at Drew, no matter how long she surreptitiously stared, and she was afraid of looking at any of the others.

She gave a start and her attention was yanked back to Ember when she said into her phone, “Hi Lain! Guess what I’ve been up to. Oh! You _ know _ it’s your business! I just pashed your girlfriend! And it was totally reciprocal!”

Somehow, Lain managed to make the most high-pitched roar ever heard, though that might have been the distortion of the phone. Nevertheless, even Drew could hear him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you _ want _ me to burn your precious house down? Because you know I will! You bitch!” he yelled, while Ember just giggled like it was her sixth birthday and she’d won pass the parcel, and all of the presentless children were sad and she was the devil.

Drew flung herself upwards and grabbed the phone out of Ember’s hand, whacking her away as she tried to grab it back.

“Lain,” she said into the phone, blinking a little moisture out of her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t do anything. She just lunged at me! I pushed her off, I swear. She’s just trying to make you mad.”

“It’s fine, Drew, just give the phone back to Ember,” Lain growled.

“No, wait,” Drew darted around Ember and to Vincent, tapping her palm against her shoulder. He gave her a beleaguered look and she said, “Vincent! Tell him I didn’t do anything!” and thrust the phone in his hand.

He raised it to his ear, gritting his teeth, and said, “Hi, Lain,” dryly. “Drew didn’t do anything.” He paused, then continued, his words like the cold, hard slam of an icepick against an iceberg. “But. She clearly liked it.”

Drew let out a squeal that was almost a shriek, twisting and turning and tangling in on itself, wrenched the phone out of Vincent’s grip, and threw it at his face. It bounced off his nose and to the floor, where it met her black rubber sole repeatedly, until that satisfying crack released enough of her anger and she could flee out into the cold wind of the evening, some sort of angry noise erupting behind her, but, whatever, that bitch deserved no phone ever.

She leant against the outer railing of the bar and breathed in, out, in, out, hoping the air would freeze the thoughts that were spinning and tumbling and falling over each other in her head. As she scrunched her eyes closed, she heard footsteps from the direction of the door, and willed them to go away, whoever it was.

“Um, are you okay?” Santha asked, and Drew looked at her with a start.

“Sorry about that,” she said, ruffling her fringe. “I probably shouldn’t have reacted so strongly.”

“It’s fine,” Santha said. “She was trying to make a fool of you. I told her off, but she just laughed, and then some guy came and took her away.”

“To a mental hospital?"

“We can only hope.” Santha shrugged, and they both laughed, the movement somehow relaxing Drew’s muscles. “I’m not going to assume anything about you. You might have just been shocked or you might have liked it. But you know you can tell me, right?”

Drew hesitated, staring at Santha’s face, which was blank except for her steady, earnest eyes, then said, “I’m bi. Though, I suppose everyone thinks I’m a lesbian, now.”

“You shouldn’t care what _ he _ thinks. He didn’t help you out at all.”

“Although, the fact that he didn’t help me placate my boyfriend doesn’t exactly dash my hopes…”

“Your boyfriend.” The concept of Drew having a boyfriend was a struggle for Santha. “Does Vincent know him, or something?”

“Yeah…” Drew said slowly. “They’re kind of best friends.”

“You’re going out with Vincent’s best friend?” Santha said, her disapproval weighing on her face and making it look longer.

“He’s pretty amazing.” Drew stared at the ground.

“But I take it that’s not the reason you’re going out with him. You’re thinking you can make Vincent jealous.”

Drew paused. In a way it was true, wasn’t it? Anything else didn’t bear mentioning. “Well. He has been really snotty about it. He acts like we’re just trying to annoy or embarrass him, but that can’t be it, right?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to only be concerned on that sort of a level,” Santha said, and Drew frowned. Both knew she was just trying to discourage her, but it also made a kind of sense that lay on Drew’s stomach like a yacht’s keel.

“Oh well,” Drew shrugged. “If all else fails, at least I’ll have had a few short weeks with a beautiful, charming boyfriend. My plan isn’t that bad.”

“Right,” Santha said, her voice tight.

~*~

“So,” said Lain, raking a hand through Drew’s extra springy, extra flicked day-off hair, so that it stood up to one side in a big, curved puff. “How are you feeling?”

“Humiliated,” Drew said, plonking herself down on his couch and tensing at the way it seemed to want to suck her into its folds. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder, so she rested against him. The grandfather clock opposite watched like a chaperone, staring all the despair of his ancestors at them. At least provide us with fresh descendants! This wood won’t polish itself!

“Think of it this way,” Lain said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Now, you’ll be able to tell how decent each of your colleagues are.”

“Yes, right. Anyone who’s mean about it isn’t worth my time, anyway.” Even as she said this, her frown dragged at her mouth.

“Come on,” Lain said, kissing her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. “I know what’ll cheer you up.”

“What?” she asked, hoping he wasn’t going to make her sexually frustrated and nervous again.

“Revenge.” He said the word with such relish, mouth pressed against the skin next to her ear, teeth grazing, lips rubbing.

“You want to get her back?” she asked with surprise, then wondered how she hadn’t guessed. “How?”

“I thought we could decide that, now,” he said.

“Does she have a partner?”

“Fiancé. And they’ll be expecting that. Besides, that would be awful. And boring.”

“Okay, okay.” Drew sniffed with mock affront. “Lemme think.”

“Sure,” he said lightly, like a cheerfully bobbing sea with tiger sharks darting beneath the surface.

They sat in silence for a moment, while she let him trail his fingertips up and down the outside of her thigh. Perhaps ideas would be more forthcoming if he didn’t do that, but neither had a mind to stop him.

“What about…” she said, ashamed of how shaky her voice sounded, while he almost squirmed in delight at the effect he could have on her. “We go to her workplace and embarrass _ her _ . With some evidence of her misdemeanours against you, or something.”

“Oh, you have no imagination!” Lain thwacked her thigh lightly.

“What?” she rounded on him. “At least I’m coming up with ideas!”

“I’m working on it! Give me a moment.”

“A moment to come up with something insane and overboard?”

“How would it be fun any other way?”

“You’re a real piece of work.” She pinched the top of his ear, and he winced and swatted at her hand.

“You like me,” he said, batting his eyelashes at her, while wrenching her pinching fingertips apart. She mock slapped his cheek, and he said, “Oh! You wanna fight? I’m not scared of you, just ‘cause you’re a girl. I can pinch, too. And scratch and pull hair and bite. And I’ve got crocodile tears, too.” He threaded his fingers through her fringe and pulled downwards.

“Ow!” she squeaked, ramming her fingers into his ribs, and he yelped.

He gave her arm a good thwack, and she gave his chest a heave, pushing him backwards, where he flomped against the seat of the couch, hair springing upwards, then settling. When he tried to sit up, giving her leg a kick as he did so, she leant over and pushed her palms against his shoulders, pinning him in place.

“Your strength,” she said as he tried to push up against her hands, “is all in your personality.”

“It’s not my fault I live a life of leisure while you throw bad guys over your shoulder every night,” he said, wondering why his play fights with Vincent never ended this way.

“I don’t think it’s that extreme,” she said, then let out another squeak as he pinched her hand, but she still kept her palms firmly against his shoulders.

“Okay,” he said, taking in a deep breath, hearing his thoughts rattle in his head as he did so, “you can let me go, now.”

“Really?” she batted her eyelashes at him, but he didn’t care if she was making fun of him or not.

“Yes, really – get off.” He stared her hard in the eyes, then smiled and curled a leg up to wrap around her waist, pulling it down so she flattened against him. The pressure left her hands. Suddenly, having her on top of him wasn’t quite so bad.

“Um, okay.” She pushed her torso up by leaning her elbows on either side of him, but that just made her lower half apply even more weight to his, and she went bright red, a deep burning spreading over her skin. He smiled up at her, laughter tickling the edges of his lips. “How is this supposed to work, anyway?” she asked in an attempt at a nonchalant conversationary tone that came out a breathless warble.

“You _ really do _ have no imagination!” he exclaimed, ruffling her hair. “You should know better!”

“Oh!” She laughed nervously. “You mean with equipment.”

He giggled, and she stared bashfully at his chest. At least his leg was losing its grip. Or maybe that was a bad thing.

“How’s your aim?” he asked, the light of revelation on his face.

“What?” Her blush deepened.

“I mean, for getting Ember back.”

“We’re not shooting her!” The problem was, she wouldn’t put it past him to be serious.

“Not with _ real _ bullets.” 


	10. Chapter 10

Standing in an alley with a large black gun in her hand, Drew tried to concentrate on how she’d felt on Friday night, and how she would feel when she encountered the shocked-but-pretending-not-to-be-surprised-but-nevertheless-judging faces of her coworkers the next night at work. Lain was peering around the corner of a building, hand gripping the concrete wall as though there was anything to grip, his short nails digging into its hard, flat surface. In his other hand, he gripped an identical gun to hers, resting against his leg. It was scary enough, even knowing it wasn’t real.

She clacked the plastic nose of the gun on the concrete wall and said, “See anything?”

“Not yet.” He swivelled around and lay his back against the wall, chest heaving, his grin unable to contain all of his teeth. It simmered into a mere twist of the lips, but one that could brim over at any moment, overseen by those flashing eyes that showed off their lashes like peacock feathers.

“Are you sure she’ll be coming this way?” she asked, resting next to him along the wall. Such a scene was not as exciting to her as it was to him, though the personal tinge to it did give an extra thud to her heartbeat.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, voice deeper and smoother, yet riddled with the taint of whatever misdemeanour he’d done to get that information.

He turned and faced the street again, so she slid along and lay her soft cheek against the tense muscles in his back. His hand curved around to lay against her arm, instead of replacing itself against the wall. She blushed and tried to enjoy the touch without worrying about whether his hand would stray too high, because she couldn’t remember whether she’d shaved her armpits that day. She frowned and moved her head so she could look over his shoulder. A moment later, insecurity forgotten and the electric feeling at the end of Lain’s fingertips coming back, she jumped as he hissed in a breath, both catching sight of a group of young women, one of whom had clearly visible wavy tendrils of red hair spilling over her white dress.

Lain turned to Drew. “This is perfect,” he part whispered, part squeaked, part moaned.

He grabbed her hand and yanked her out into the street, feeling the footpath jar his bones through his leather soles as he ran. She tumbled after him, trying to steady her grip on the gun while keeping Ember in her focus. When that red hair was swimming sufficiently close to their vision, not running away, though the other girls had vanished, Lain yelled, “Now!” and let go of Drew’s hand to grip his gun with both of his. Two cracking sounds, slightly out of unison, a wail, and that white dress was splodged with green and yellow paint, dripping and oozing down from her shoulder and stomach.

“You _ do _ have good aim!” Lain exclaimed, then loosed another bullet of paint at Ember, his squealing growl accompanying its splatter against the corrugated iron garage door behind her.

“I think we’ve done enough,” Drew said, pulling on his arm, and he fired off one more miss before letting her drag him back down the alley, jumping over the fence at the end and into the carpark beyond.

A few squeals could be heard behind them, but Lain was sure that none of them were from Ember. Where was that satisfying projectile of a tirade?

They ran to Lain’s parked car, flung themselves into it, and sat in the front seats, still clutching their paint guns, catching their breaths and looking at each other with wild, giggling eyes. Something fizzed between them like sparklers flecking their skin with light, giving the edges of their hair a neon glow and extricating laughter from their heaving chests.

“What would Vincey have to say about you?” Lain said, pinching Drew’s cheek.

The sparklers now fizzled and settled in their laps, the glow winking out and the thudding of their hearts feeling like punches from within their chests.

~*~

Lain walked through the entrance to the clothing shop, flanked on either side by cream cloth mannequins, one clothed in a floor length cotton dress with an intricate golden leaf pattern crawling up its weave, the other in a suit with the merest bronze tinge. Yelizabeta looked up from the counter at the sound of his footsteps, and grinned and waved, stepping lightly out to meet him. She was wearing a white shirt with a frilled collar that matched the ones hanging on a nearby rack, and a knee length skirt that was almost as wide as it was tall, thanks to her petticoat. It had pictures of gleaming green apples along the hem, and didn’t look like something the venerable designer Charlotte Denan, namesake of the shop, would have made.

“Don’t you look cute,” he said as he sauntered up to her.

“Same to you,” she said, tweaking his green dragonfly brooch that matched his eyes _ perfectly _ and therefore made them more persuasive.

“Thanks.” He gave an exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes, and she laughed. “How’s work?”

“So-so,” she tipped her hand to and fro. “Not many customers, but a couple of big purchases. It will be easier if you stay.” She pulled at his sleeve. “So I don’t get bored.”

“Sure,” he said. “I don’t really have anywhere to be until my class at two.”

“You need a job,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.

“Why?” he asked. “I’m trying to use up my money, remember?”

“Still, I think it would be good for you. Routine, learning to take orders, staying in one place for a while…”

He wrinkled his nose.

“And…” She hesitated, taking a deep breath and letting her eyes get lost in a fold of cream fabric. “It would help with your down times.”

“It would?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t you see how having a reason to get out of the house, some clear cut routine and responsibility would help?”

“Well. When you put it like that…”

“Think about it,” she said. “And, just know, I’d always put in a good word for you here.”

“Wow, I never knew you were one of those people who hate their boss.”

“Don’t be silly!” She swatted him on the arm. “You’d be great. You’re not a complete loose cannon.”

He shrugged, smiling with fake bashful modesty. “I do have some measure of self control. For instance,” his eyes brightened and he tapped the clothing rack next to him for emphasis, “I’ve been very patient with Drew.”

She suppressed a smile. “Really. Three weeks without sex?”

“Yeah,” his voice rose an octave. “It’s not so bad… I mean, it  _ is _ frustrating because _ she knows _ she’d like what I’d do for her, and I kind of wish she’d at least let me thrust against her leg or something…like a dog…” he trailed off, picking at the shoulder of a gauze singlet.

She considered him steadily for a moment, then said, “Have you ever been this patient with a lover before?”

He winced at the word, knowing what she was trying to get at. But _ she _ knew even less about what was going on than he did.

“When I was a teenager, plenty. It hasn’t been such a necessity, recently,” he said.

“Why is it a necessity, now?”

“Are you…trying to convince me to break up with her?”

“No!” she laughed. “I’m just wondering why you’re so intent on sticking with her for so long.”

“We just…have a lot of fun.” He shrugged. “Stop analysing me. You’re always analysing me…” 

“I thought you liked it,” she said. When he glared at the floor sullenly, mouth pressed closed, she said, “I hope you continue to have fun until your amiable yet inevitable breakup.”

“Thank you,” he said prissily, then smirked. “It had better be amiable or Vincey will kill me.”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded slowly. “Vincey.”

~*~

Qianbei watched Ember from their bedroom doorway as she snatched her purse off her bedside table. In went a pair of scissors and her chain of keys that could, collectively, open almost any door. 

“You’re just going to pick on  _ Lain _ , ah?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes,” she said, clipping the dome closed and giving him a bright smile. “She’s clearly under his doe-ey influence and…she did kind of deserve to get her revenge on me. But, him, he now owes me.”

“Okay,” he said, relieved, yet still eyeing the purse warily. “What are you going to do?”

“Just cut up his favourite shirt,” she said nonchalantly. “I’ll humiliate him later.”

“Ember,” he groaned. “Then he’ll think he owes you twice.”

“How could he?! I’m still finding burnt things! My old class pictures! What the hell!” She stomped her foot, her stiletto making a dent in the carpet.

He left the doorway and walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her torso. As they collided, the backs of her legs bumped against the bed.

“Why don’t you just burn his class pictures, lah?”

She laughed, burying her head in his shoulder so that her mirth got trapped in the small space between them and puffed back at her face in hot gusts.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said with no real reprimand, though his gut still flinched. “But, no such luck. Back when we were friends, I watched him burn his school photos, himself. I told him he’d start weeping about it later, but he never did.”

“Maybe he doesn’t need you to torment him…”

“But I need him to torment. Besides, I need to get him back.”

“Yes, yes,” he squeezed the back of her neck.

“You’re such an enabler.” She thwacked him with her bag and wriggled out of his embrace.

“You’re telling _ me _ off,” he said aghast, and grabbed her retreating arm. “Do you have to go now?”

“Yes, he’s got a class at two, and it’s only for an hour.” She squeezed his hand and gave him a look that promised lovely things that did not involve fire or scissors or another man, but only upon her return, and then that last vestige of skin contact slid away and she walked out the door, her heels making thudding noises as they descended the stairs.

~*~

Drew ignored the furrowed brow a fellow constable aimed at her as she and Santha walked out into the police station carpark. Santha ruffled Marko's pointy ears and let him lead her to the vans, while Drew waved them goodbye and trudged up to Vincent and their I-car. 

“Vincent!” she said as she approached.

He looked up from the speedometer he was tuning and nodded, then went back to work, hitting the tuning fork a little harder than he needed to. Its vibrations just exacerbated the effect of his stillness as he crouched against the bonnet.

“How was your weekend?” she asked as she walked around him and poked her head through the front window to check the speed the speedometer was reading. “Thirty Ks.”

“It was fine. Normal,” he said briskly, standing up and straightening his vest. 

“That’s good,” she said, wondering what normal was like for him.

“Lain was blathering on the phone about something you two did to Ember,” he said as though he hadn’t really listened. But he had. With vexation. And it showed, scrawling its way across his black eyebrows.

“Oh,” she laughed nervously and blushed, hurrying back around the car to the passenger door. “I was just trying to get her back for humiliating me. He seemed truly malicious, though…”

Vincent paused halfway through opening the car door and blinked at her, the word ‘humiliation’ eeking the empathy out of him.

“Fair enough,” he said, then got into the car, and she followed suit. “Still, he’s obviously a bad influence on you.”

“You’re still so mad about us going out?” she asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

“I’m not,” he said sharply, staring at the jagged point of the car key in his hand. “He can date whoever the hell he wants to.”

The key sliced into the ignition, making it cry and shake, and Drew barely said a word for the rest of their shift.

~*~

Lain rolled over in bed, his hair fluffing upwards as it grazed his pillow, and reached through the dewy fog of sleep for his bleeping phone.

He shoved it against his ear and said, “Hello?”

“Hi, Lain,” Drew’s weary voice came through the speaker, and he smiled and settled deeper into his blankets, his free cheek sinking into the pillow.

“Hey, sweetie. Did you just finish work?” he asked, the remnants of sleep dragging his speech into a soft drawl.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice dragged down in an entirely different way. “Can I meet with you today?”

“Sure,” he said. “I have classes from eleven till four. Come over at five. I’ll make dinner. You can help if you want.”

“Actually,” she said haltingly, “do you mind eating out?”

“Not at all."

“Okay. Um… Meet me in Newmarket? By the mall?”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“It’s alright. It’s only one bus from my place.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“As you wish.”

“Shall we meet at six?”

“Okay; can’t wait.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Hey – ah – are you tired?”

“Yeah. I think I’ll go and sleep until tonight.”

“Yeah? A-“

“Well, see you at six. Study well.”

Click.

Lain threw his phone to the floor with a flick of his wrist and buried his head in his pillow. Whatever the hell was wrong, it wouldn’t be wrong by the end of the night. 

~*~

Drew paced in front of the mall, watching the stripy grooves in the escalators ascend and descend, alternating in glaring silver and shadowy grey. A little girl with untied shoelaces stepped onto the rising one, and their flapping strands itched at Drew’s consciousness until they reached beyond her view. She pinched her palm, her teeth clamped closed like a bear trap with no prey caught in it.

A svelte arm wound itself around her waist and she jumped at least a centimetre. Lain giggled in her ear and kissed her cheek. She didn’t want to tense. She truly wanted to sink into his chest and lap up that pretty face of his, but her skin seemed to tighten like an ill-fitting wetsuit.

“You okay?” he asked, drawing away from her a little, but keeping his hand at her waist.

“Yeah,” she waved her hand and gave him a big, bright, fake smile. “Do you have any preference for where we eat?”

“There is a nice place around the corner,” he said, nudging his head to the right. “It’s kind of a fancy version of a pub.”

“Great!” she said. “Let’s go.”

She let him hold her hand as they walked past the bright shop windows and their metal-gated and padlocked doors, dark interiors peeking through the bars. When they got to the pub, they sat in a dark burgundy coloured booth of smooth surfaces and clean, sharp corners. Drew insisted on sitting on the outside seat, rather than the bench along the wall. As they waited for their food, Lain chatted as though he were naïve and unable to tell that something was wrong, but, really, he was racking his mind for things that had made her happy or relaxed in the past. His wide-eyed but calm expression, with a few flutters here and there for seductive effect, his hand resting close to hers, the light jokes about their insecurities, were all designed. But he could tell her smile was fake, and her attempts at enjoying the night, though genuine, were unsuccessful. Her eyes kept falling to the table top, and were veiled, protecting their true expression.

“How were your classes?” she asked when their food came, smiling at the plate in front of her.

“Fine,” Lain said, then rolled his eyes. “One of my classmates is pretty annoying, though, but that’s normal.”

“Oh?” she said but didn’t push him further.

“Mmm. Not sure what to do about him…” He stabbed at the chicken on his plate, tearing the white flesh apart. “What about you? How was work?”

“Not too bad. Just some thieves. We caught them, though.” She kept her eyes on her plate, at the little fingers of chicken and vegetable and the accompanying sauces that looked thick and unappetising. She tried a piece of chicken by itself, chewing it slowly and delicately, and decided it was good on its own.

“You and Vincey?” he looked over their plates at her, smiling.

“Mmhmm,” she tried to be nonchalant, blinking until the moisture just beneath her eyes sunk back down.

“Was he good? Nice to you?” he asked, sucking at his fork as he watched her, head tilted.

She looked at him, then back down, blushing, and stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork. Her eyes were wide and glistening with a film that seemed like a barrier. A barrier to something getting in, or something getting out?

“He was very pleasant, for Vincent.”

“Good! Though, his meanness is just an act, anyway.” Lain winced at how awkward he sounded and prodded at his food.

Drew wished he’d hurry up and shovel that hunk of bird into his mouth. She was almost finished with hers, and then what would she do?

When he finally did finish his dinner, she suggested that they order coffee, and he ordered a chai latte. She followed suit, in the hopes that she’d be able to get some sleep in before her next shift, at midnight. But she only stared at the froth-tickled glass and stirred her drink after every millilitre sip. Lain's napkin was torn in wispy pieces before he’d finished half of his drink, making a little mountain of white next to his spoon.

“What’s bothering you?” he blurted out, setting his glass with a clink onto its ill-fitting saucer. It wobbled, then settled, while she stared at him pensively.

“Okay. Um, yes. We’ve always been so honest with each other, and that’s made us much closer than I expected, but…there’s one important thing we’ve never talked about.” Lain’s eyes widened, but he nodded for her to continue. “The reason I wanted to go out with you in the first place, and I think this is mutual, was never entirely about how charming and attractive you were to me. I-“ she took a deep breath, “have always liked Vincent – _ so much _ – and I…kind of wanted to keep you occupied with me so you couldn’t be with him and I think you’ve been doing the same with me and,” she raised her hand at the indignant opening of his mouth, “I know you’re going to deny it, but I can _ see _ you’re nuts about him, and you _ like _ that he doesn’t want us to be together, and so did I.”

“I think you’re just reflecting your own feelings onto me,” Lain said, clutching his pant leg under the table. “And I’m not going to get mad about it, or mad that you’ve been thinking about him all this time, but you have to know that – what you’re saying about me _ isn’t true _ .” He closed his mouth. His voice was shaking too much. 

“I think you need to face these feelings,” she said. “I never thought I’d say that to you, but, seriously, you shouldn’t be wasting this. Because _ he isn’t interested in me _ . I accept that, now. It’s _ so clear _ . I wanted him to be jealous of you for going out with me. But he’s not. He’s jealous of _ me _ .” Her voice cracked.

“He is not,” Lain said, his voice like a seastorm. “He’s just being a turd. We’re making him uncomfortable, but he doesn’t _ want this _ .” He gestured between them. “He doesn’t want anything like this. He’s undoubtedly asexual.”

“How can _ you _ , of all people, believe that?”

“You know it’s true. It’s why you like him. He’s safe. He’s never going to touch you the way I want to, and _ you like that. _ ”

“No! I’m just not ready. I’m scared.”

“And you like that he won’t make you face that fear. I could’ve helped you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I really do want to face my fear, and I thought that you could help me; I wanted you to, but I can’t be with you anymore. Until I get over Vincent, you’re just going to make me sad.”

“So you’re breaking up with me over some imaginary feelings,” he said, his voice hardening. “Fine. At least I have a chance of getting laid, now.”

He got out his wallet and threw down enough money to pay for their meals while she protested, “No – wait – just stay and talk. You have a fear to face, too.”

“I do not,” he said, his voice a spitting growl, and stood up.

Something about that look, directed at her in a steady stream of venom, made her resentment and jealousy bubble up inside her, like the vital ingredient had been thrown into a witch’s cauldron.

“It shouldn’t be easier for _ me _ to face this than _ you _ . You _ love _ him and he _ loves _ you and no matter what you tell yourself, that’s how it is!”

“Using imaginary concepts – stupid _ lies _ – in an argument is _ not _ going to convince me of _ anything _ ,” he almost yelled, then swept from the table and past all the half-stares of the other patrons, out into the splashing cool of the night wind.

~*~

“Vincent! Wait – can I talk to you for a second?” Drew ran after him as he made his way out the automatic doors of the police station and into the light blue morning.

“Alright,” he said, slowing until she caught up with him, though with the utmost reluctance. She’d been jumpy all day and that glossy look in her eyes gave him the queasiest of feelings. 

“Let’s go to that park down the road; I want to sit down.” She pointed down the street at a little patch of green and its promise of a wooden bench.

“I thought it was only going to be a second,” he said, but followed her, taking comfort in her brisk strides.

She sat down on a bench in the middle of the park, facing away from the pedestrians and traffic, and picked the lint off the knees of her trousers. When he sat down next to her, her picking only became faster, until all the lint was gone from that patch and wisps of thread trailed upwards in search of their lost companions.

“Okay,” she finally said. “I need to talk to you, and I’m dearly hoping you’re not going to get angry or interrupt me or anything.” She realised that was a bad way to start when she saw his mouth turn down further in apprehension. “I broke up with Lain.” He refrained from saying ‘good’ and let her continue. “The reason I was going out with him was… Um.” She paused, wondering if she really wanted to tell him that. “I just wanted to make you jealous. Because I have a crush on you. But I know you don’t feel the same way, and I’m just going to _ move past it _ .”

She swept her hand across the air in front of her, like pushing files off a desk, while he looked at the tree opposite them, trying to keep his face blank. A queasy feeling splashed at his face, and he tried to shake it off.

“But you have been jealous,” she continued. “You were mad that I was going out with Lain. Because you like him.” His eyes widened. “And it’s _ so obvious _ that he likes you. Ack. Okay. Not like. Love. You love each other.”

The only movement he made was a hard swallow, the lump travelling stiffly down his throat, mimicking the downward path of his eyes, to the grass, and to his knees.

“You’re smarter than the rest of our colleagues,” he said, “but obviously not smart enough.”

He stood up, and she jumped up, too, grabbing at his sleeve.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she said through her teeth. “He’s being one, so you have to be the brave one. Otherwise you’ll waste this.”

“I’m sorry I don’t like you back,” he said, cool and soft. “I just don’t have those feelings.”

With a jerk of his arm, his sleeve was gone from her grasp, leaving her alone, kicking the grass and muttering, “Idiots.”


	11. Chapter 11

The patches of burnt grass seemed to screech across the back lawn like the trails of hyperactive fireflies, but much larger and more ominous. The powder of the fire extinguisher laced their edges.

“Stupid bastard,” Ember said. “I hadn’t even finished _ my _ revenge, yet.”

“Just call the police and tell them you _ do _ want to press charges,” Qianbei said, rubbing at his forehead and keeping a safe distance from her.

“That wouldn’t be satisfying at all! No. I’m going to continue with my plan, but make it even _ worse _ .”

Her nails started digging into her palms, so she relaxed her fists, then clapped her hands together.

“This is going to be so great.”

Her smile released all of her malice and excitement, and Qianbei could almost see it seeping through her teeth. She wondered where his own weary smile had gone, and sidled up next to him.

“Don’t worry,” she said, putting an arm around his shoulder. “We’ll fix the grass.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said dully, staring at it.

“Then, what?” she asked sharply.

He chewed his lip for a moment while his eyes came back into focus, then said, “Why’d you break up with him?”

Her eyes went wide, mascara’d eyelashes unsticking from their neighbours.

“We never really went out,” she said. “We were just bed buddies. And then bed buddies were no longer necessary, because I met you.”

“Do you think things would’ve gone further if you’d been left to it?”

She whacked him on the arm and he recoiled, rubbing the sore spot.

“You think you’re just feeling sorry for yourself, but you’re insulting me!” she spat, then stomped away in her six inch heels.

“It’s really that insulting?” he called after her. “You don’t _ really _ seem to hate him.”

“Stop insulting me!” she yelled without looking back, and continued stomping into the downstairs bathroom, where she pulled out a match and swiped it along its box, the scratch, puff and crackle vibrating right through her bones, warming them like the flame warmed her skin, until it got too close to her fingertips and she had to drop the curling, shrivelled, black stick.

~*~

Lain lay in bed, calm and still, if only for the moment, his spinning, wheeling, frolicking energy spent, lingering in the corners of his upturned mouth. Sleep still seemed far-fetched – the subtle pattern on the ceiling was far too preoccupying. It hadn't been there before. It was just the ghosts of swirls in fern shapes, but there were too many and they were too detailed and the pattern was too even to be stains or smudges. He wondered if they’d been there all along, but he’d never bothered to stare up into the furthest reaches of that pale cream.

He heard a knock at the door, but decided it wasn’t real, until it sounded again, this time with the consistency of a knife plunging into the wood. He launched himself up and off the bed, smoothing his crumpled red and umber shirt, and hopped his way downstairs, humming softly.

When he opened the door on the pale morning and Vincent’s paler face, he grinned and said, “What a lovely surprise! What brings you here, dear Vincey?”

“Don’t call me that,” Vincent snapped, and shouldered his way into the house. “I know what you were doing tonight.”

“You do?” Lain said coyly, pressing his lips together and batting his eyelashes.

“The gist of it,” Vincent said as he stormed his way into the living room and sat down on the nearest couch. 

“Then…” Lain said, sitting on the arm of the couch, his hip bumping into Vincent’s shoulder. “Are you here to commend me or arrest me?”

“Neither are possible,” Vincent said. “I just wanted to tell you off.”

It sounded flat even as he said it, like a balloon that thought it could carry on without tying up its end. Now, he just wanted sleep, and the anger from an hour before was trickling out of him.

“So.” He looked up at Lain’s expectant face. “Stop carrying on like a lunatic.”

“Are you my minder?” Lain asked innocently.

“Maybe you need one,” Vincent said. “I don’t have time for that, but I’m going to check on you tomorrow after work to make sure you’re not a blackened crisp.”

Lain laughed, a delicate hand to his mouth as though he were a courtly lady who’d been told a preposterous joke. “What time will that be?”

“Twelve.”

“What kind of a time is that?” Lain stood up.

“Those don’t look like the undereyes of a man who’s been sleeping,” Vincent said.

“Neither do yours,” Lain said, prodding the grey pouches of sagging skin under Vincent’s eyes.

“Soon, I will,” Vincent said, with a bit of hope.

“You can use one of the spare bedrooms!”

Lain darted out of the room and up the stars as quickly as he’d said it, and certainly faster than Vincent could’ve declined. His legs agreed wholeheartedly with Lain, and mustered just enough energy to follow him to the room that was nearly as big as his own hallway/kitchen/dining/living room, and furnished with beige and gold bedding as though this happened often. The stiffness with which the sheets folded over told another story.

~*~

Lain spun his pen in circles on the white desk, the blur almost making a blue star. Dr Findley was taking forever to find the right power point presentation, as though it would add to his words. He’d clicked his way through five folders, so far, and Lain was hoping he would stumble upon some incriminating files in the process. Like that time some students at high school had sworn they’d seen ‘naughty or nice’ in one of the science teachers’ internet favourites.

“Hey, Lain,” Todd’s voice in his ear made him jump and turn around.

He folded his arms in front of his chest while Todd sat down next to him, and said, “Hello. You’re early.”

“Yes! I didn’t sleep in!” Todd looked like a five year old boy who’d found a colony of snails in the garden.

“No party last night?” Lain asked, spying the bags under his eyes that, for once, didn’t look quite as bad as his own.

“Nope! But there _ is _ one tonight. You have to come! You never come.”

“I won’t be able to stay past eleven thirty. Vincey’s coming over after work to make sure I’m not burning my flesh off or something.”

The light in Todd’s eyes flickered off for a moment, his lip curling slightly, and he said, “That’s a drag.”

“I think it’s a useful service,” Lain said. “I might be teetering, or I might be a normal mixture of happiness and agitation.”

“That’s why you need to come to the party,” Todd said. “I won’t creep on you, even. I’ll set you up.”

“ _ You’ll _ set me up?”

“Sure!" Todd shrugged, fidgeting with the weave of his seafoam green sleeve.

"Okay. I've  _ got _ to see this."

~*~

Vincent drove up to the green iron gates, stabbing the dark grey sky with their spikes. Yellow peeped through a set of curtains on the ground floor of Lain's house; it was solid, unflickering. He got out and walked up to the intercom, giving it a quick jab, and waited, feeling the night’s chill seep through his black jacket.

“Vincey!” Lain’s voice came through the intercom. “I’ll let you in!”

That wasn’t the sparkling, hyperactive voice, shooting off like fireworks, that Vincent had been expecting. It was clumsier and slower, warmth instead of heat.

Vincent squeezed his way in through the gates as soon as they opened wide enough, creaking on their ancient hinges, and marched his way up to the front door. One of the steps wobbled underfoot, but he hefted his weight onto the next one and avoided splitting his head open on the concrete.

The door opened before he reached it, and Lain’s pale face beamed there for a moment, before he slumped against the frame, his grin turning more childish and lazy.

“Hey,” he said, giggling. “I have company, but she can leave.”

“Um. Right. I can leave, actually,” Vincent said. He was just getting the hang of Lain’s moods, and he didn’t want a completely new one thrown in to make him lose his confidence.

“No, no!” Lain launched himself off the doorframe and slowly, carefully, with barely disguised clumsiness, made his way down the hall.

Vincent followed, treading just as carefully but with far more precision. 

A girl was sitting on one of the living room couches, her short black hair waving down her neck, leaving about a metre of exposed flesh, then her red dress started, and finished not far away. Vincent knew hate at first sight was wrong, but that had never stopped him from feeling it before, and it certainly wouldn’t now.

“Cassandra, dear, I’m terribly sorry,” Lain said, leaning closer to her (or propping himself up on the couch), “but the time seems to have run away with me. I’ve had a lovely evening with you, but you’ll have to leave.”

“What?” she almost shouted, her indignation scrawling its way across her face. She scrutinised Vincent without jealousy, and he saw the dart of her eyes.

“What did you do?” he demanded, stepping forwards.

Her eyes went wide, painting innocence upon themselves, but that flicker of movement towards the coffee table – and the two glasses sitting nonchalantly there – was the crack in the paint he needed. He stared at the glasses, both filled with clear liquid, but one was clearer than the other. The rosy wood of the coffee table looked slightly white through the right one.

“Did you-“ he started, but she flung herself off the couch and bowled her way past Lain and Vincent, wedge heels clomping as she passed through the parquet hall.

“It’s nothing dangerous!” she cried out before she fled out the door.

Vincent made to follow her, but his arm got stuck in Lain’s grasp.

“Thank you for getting rid of her,” Lain said. “She was _ such _ a drag.”

“Did you realise she spiked your drink?” Vincent asked, hoping that would ignite some anger in Lain so that he’d let him chase her.

“Oh?” was all Lain said, and he pulled Vincent closer with both hands, his grip moving up his arm, to the soft underside of his upper arm that never got any environmental exposure, let alone had fingers brush against it.

“Um. What are you doing?” Vincent asked, staring at Lain’s hands because his eyes weren’t lazy anymore – no – they were far too active. Burning, glowing green, searing into him.

“I thought I might kiss you.” Lain's touch was just as light as his tone as one hand moved to the back of Vincent’s neck and applied a persuasive pressure. But Vincent ducked and slid his arm out of Lain’s grasp.

“Did that drink make you such a whore that you’d want me?” he said angrily, shakily, straightening his shirt.

“I always want you,” Lain said, then leant forward and pulled Vincent back towards the couch by the sleeve.

Vincent picked up the glass of murky water with his free hand as Lain sat on the couch and tugged him into sitting next to him. As he moved the glass, the water swirled, carrying the white taint along its currents. Lain was tracing lines up his scalp in similar swirling patterns, the rigid hair shifting aside with each stroke. He wondered if he should drink the water – just a little bit – to make sure Lain really wasn’t in danger. The idea swam in the water, danced at Lain’s fingertips. Then the fingers slid down his scalp, down his neck, slumped against his shoulder, and Lain’s head fell in his lap, a dead weight. Vincent shook his shoulder and flicked at his cheek, and Lain twitched and shook his head in annoyance, then settled back into the dubious comfort of Vincent’s bony lap.

~*~

Lain blinked his eyes open, but it was like pushing open a door on rusted hinges, and the sight beyond the frame was too blurry to be worth all that effort, so he closed them again and shoved his head into his pillow. That didn’t alleviate the corroded feeling in his throat and brain, however. He lay still and tried to let everything just dissolve, but you can’t dissolve corrosion – it is dissolution, itself.

A creak in the floorboards downstairs, and he sat straight upright, breathing sharp and deep. It felt like air was seeping out of imagined holes in his oesophagus. He took in a gulp of stale bedroom air, and fumbled his way out of bed. Then his mind stumbled into a memory, and the lack of an important one. He didn’t remember putting himself to bed, but he _ did _ remember where he’d fallen asleep. Oh. At least he knew who was downstairs, even if the thought of facing him was not so pleasing, now. Then again, his drink had been spiked. He had the excuse of a convenient memory lapse.

He ignored the call of the bed and made his way to the stairs, using the horizontal pattern of the wallpaper as a guide. While leaning on the banister and slowly creaking his way downwards, he came across Vincent sitting on his couch and reading a novel. The other man gave him the briefest of sympathetic looks, then resumed his sharp, stern face.

“I trust you’ll think twice before inviting strange women home, again,” he said.

Lain made it the rest of the way downstairs, then pulled himself upright and straightened his pyjamas. He couldn't remember sliding the silk over his skin or doing up the buttons. 

“At least I have venerable citizens like yourself to help me,” he said, then smiled sheepishly. He wanted to hug Vincent, but he also wanted to put a glass wall in between them.

“Don’t worry about it,” Vincent said. “What else would I be doing with my nights?” It wasn’t a sarcastic complaint – the question really did need to be begged.

“Probably something far more useful!” Lain said, then shuffled past Vincent and beckoned him to follow him. “I’ll make you breakfast to make up for it.”

“No, thanks,” Vincent said, though he still followed him through the doorless frame that led to the dining area. “I’m not that hungry.”

“What is _ that _ hungry? Rolling around the floor, gnawing at your own limbs?” Lain clutched a chair as he passed it, digging nails into its plush back. 

“ _ No _ .”

“Either way, you’re not going the slightest bit hungry on my watch!”

“What are you talking about? You haven’t been watching anything other than some floozy pour whatever the hell that was into your drink.”

“I’ll have you know that I saw nothing of the sort! Why do you think I drank it? I poured the water myself.”

“Oh! Then you weren’t even watching that. No. I’ve been watching you. Like you’re a wayward child.”

“I’ve just been getting overexcited. I haven’t been that bad. She clearly had some sort of motive to catch me.”

Lain stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and stared down at the coral tiled floor. His head whizzed up and he spun to face Vincent, which turned out to be a dizzying move for his invalid head. His eyes had that searing look about them, jaw locking his teeth into a hiss.

“Yes, I was thinking it was her,” Vincent said. “The girl was probably her friend.”

“What the hell is wrong with her?” The words strangled themselves on Lain’s almost-scream.

“You have to admit that you invite this,” Vincent said.

“She had help!” Lain pronounced. “Todd _ introduced me to that girl _ . Of course he was lying when he said he wanted to set me up!”

“That guy…” Vincent said with a scowl, his stomach curdling at the thought of him. “Why do you even go near him?”

“Why the fuck indeed!” Lain shouted, then stormed into the kitchen to beat up some eggs.

~*~

“Hi, _ Todd _ ,” Lain said aggressively, shoving Todd’s shoulder as he passed him, and kept striding down the aisle of chairs until he got to the other end of the lecture theatre, where he sat heavily, slamming his bag down onto the desk in front of him.

“Wait – Lain,” Todd darted up and followed him down the aisle, blushing at the stares he was getting.

Lain just got out his protractor and slammed it into his notepad, making Todd flinch. There was no reason for him to even _ have _ a protractor.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Todd said. “What even happened?”

“Vincey saved me is what happened,” Lain said, his tone now brisk and polite. “I suppose you thought that by joining in, you’d be helping to make me regret the way I conduct my affairs. Well. I _ do _ regret not giving you a kick between your pathetic puppy eyes long ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Todd said, employing said puppy eyes. “She just said she wanted to embarrass you.”

“You know what she’s capable of,” Lain said. “And, now, I know what you’re capable of.”

“Similar to you, hmm?” Todd’s tone made Lain look up in time to see him stomping back to his seat.

He unplucked the protractor and placed it back inside its glass container. The hole it left glared accusingly at him, but it was small and would soon be written over in the course of the lecture.

~*~

Drew lay on her couch, one armrest digging into her head, legs curled, staring at the TV screen. Someone was cooking, yellow splattering about in a pan, while someone else yelled, their spittle splattering about their mouth. When she cooked, there was no yelling, but nothing spectacular came out of the process, either.

She hefted herself up and found her way into the kitchen. And instantly regretted looking into the fridge. No – she regretted buying that carton of custard and that bottle of cream. What did she think she was doing? Hosting a dinner party? But, still. It would help. She deserved it. The ache in her head would go away. That’s all she needed – a padding of custard and cream around her, to soften the blows.

The custard went in the microwave, while the cream went in another bowl to be whipped. She set the whisk inside the bowl and turned to gather the vanilla essence and icing sugar. A bang, she turned around, and the bowl was on its side, leaking cream. She wanted to cry, but instead she uprighted the bowl, cleaned everything, and got more cream. Clearly, she wasn’t doing so badly. The icing sugar and the vanilla essence went in successfully, this time, and then they were all whisked up together until the new amalgamation was twirling and twisting its way up the whisk in a frothy upside down tornado.

Cold cream went into hot custard, and instantly started melting. What was the point of whisking the cream, then? Oh well. She would just have to eat it fast. She took it back into the living room and sat back down on the couch. And then it was all gone, and, yes, it did taste good. She’d taken a little much. She felt sick. Not _ very _ sick, put pointlessly sick. She felt tingling behind her eyes, and she snivelled. And cried. What had she been thinking? Soften the blows? The blows were coming from inside her. And now there was something else in there, with all the rest. The guilt of eating a massive bowl of _ crap _ , and the surety that it was forming a layer of fat on her stomach of greater volume than the food, itself. That wasn’t the kind of padding she’d wanted.

She got up again, went back into the kitchen, rinsed all the dishes and put them aside to wash later. She pulled the rest of the cream and custard out of the fridge, turned on the taps, and poured them down the sink with the water. The custard separated and floated about in the water before draining away. The cream went down easier, diluting in the water, but still a rich white, not the pale, translucent colour she was expecting.

But they were gone. The containers were now with the rest of the recycling. If she got pathetic again, she’d just have to eat a banana. And bananas are horrible when you’re already full. All stodgy and thick and sticky. 

If the clock were to be believed, it was time for work. Outside, it looked dark enough. No one would be about, except idiots and scum. She wondered which one she was. 


	12. Chapter 12

Ember tapped at the buttons of the remote, her finger attached to a taut string reaching up her arm, her shoulder, her neck, to the base of her brain. The soft brush of an impatient hand, and the remote was gone, the string snapped.

“I was trying to find something good,” she said through her teeth, turning to glare at Qianbei.

Qianbei tilted his head down and looked at her from the corner of his eye, lips in a soft pout, making her regret being mean.

“You weren’t even watching, lah” he said, then his finger settled on the off button in a hard, final way that hers had not been capable of. “What’s wrong?” He turned and regarded her with a stern kindness that uncomfortably reminded her of her parents.

“I’m upset that my last revenge on Lain got messed up. I want to do something else to make up for that, but I can’t justify it to myself,” she admitted, frowning at her nails.

“Oh,” he said, and bit his cheek. “You _ did _ spike his drink. Isn’t that what started this whole thing in the first place, ah?”

“ _ No. _ Him burning my curtains started it,” she said fiercely.

“Which he did while under the influence of the alcohol you snuck into his drink.”

“Why are you taking _ his side _ ?” she whined, then straightened her posture and cleared her throat. “Nevermind. I understand. You’re being tough on me because you think I’m being ridiculous.”

“Well,” he said slowly. It was partly true. “I just think you should lay off. For a little bit, at least. It’s the last week of classes and he’s probably getting stressed about exams.”

“Did you ever know him to get stressed about exams? He’s either irritatingly blazè about it or thinks he’s some sort of superhuman who can survive without sleep or food. Any exchanges we have will be a good outlet for him.”

“It’s hard to argue with that, _ but _ there is something else. Yelizabeta said he’s taking his recent breakup badly,” he said.

“Something new to torment him about!” She clapped her hands.

“ _ Or _ we could help him see the truth, lah.”

“The truth!” she scoffed. “Do you even know the truth?”

“I can suspect it.”

“What do you suspect, then?” Her patronising smile twisted its sharp corners into his gut.

“Obviously, I think he cares more about his ex girlfriend than he’s willing to admit.”

Her smile hid not-so-secret laughter. “You think that’s it, do you?”

“What?” he demanded.

“Think about who else it might be, then tell me who you think it is,” she said, her words dancing lightly in front of him.

He didn’t want to think about _ that _ , so he just glared at her.

~*~

As Sergeant Ballentyne briefed the graveyard shift on the troubled spots that night, Vincent pinched the back of his hand to keep himself focussed. And not focussed on hearing news of a particular area…a particular street…a particular house. It was merely a bit of mist that kept creeping across his attention. Easily brushed away.

At the end of the briefing, Seargent Ballentyne walked up to Vincent and made to place a hand on his shoulder, but purposely let it miss and swing awkwardly at his side, instead.

“I have a favour to ask,” he said. “Wallace has phoned in sick. Are you able to cover the first half of his shift, from eight to twelve?”

Vincent wrinkled his nose at the thought of working in the daytime, with the shoplifters and the bureaucrats. But it was more work, and he shouldn’t be such a wimp.

“That’s fine,” he said, nodding curtly. He restrained himself from asking for the second half of Wallace’s shift, too. They’d ask him if required. He wasn’t needy.

“You’re a good man,” Seargent Ballentyne said, smiling gratefully at Vincent, then strode off to talk to Jason. Hopefully to reprimand him.

Drew approached down the grey and brown speckled carpet, and the mist swarmed over her until he could hardly see her face. 

“Hey, Vincent. How are you?” she asked, at least her voice making its muffled way through the mist.

“Fine,” he said shortly. He pinched his hand again.

“You’re making it red.” She swatted his hands apart, and he flinched away from her touch.

“How are you?” he asked, hoping to distract her from that far too obvious movement.

“Not terrible,” she said.

“That’s good, I suppose…” he said doubtfully, wondering what else he should say. “I hope that improves.”

“Thanks,” she said, laughing. “How’s Lain?”

“Getting himself into trouble. But I think his exams are soon, so hopefully that will preoccupy him. Or he’ll fail them.”

“He’s smart – I’m sure he won’t fail.”

“Smart.” He rolled his eyes and smirked.

She laughed again and patted his upper arm. He didn’t flinch, but jumped in surprise.

“See ya in the I-car,” she said, and shuffled off to the equipment room.

~*~

Lain sat in the library, penned in on either side by two other becubicled students, furiously flipping through their notes and casting occasional glances at the boy across the room with his headphones on too loud, that tinny noise infuriating the studious. Lain could not count himself amongst their ranks, but at least he was polite, quietly alternating between doodling in the corners of his notes and tapping away at his cellphone. He was receiving the news that Vincent was, again, working overtime. For once in Vincent’s life, this was bad news to somebody.

_ Well, _ Lain thought, closing his phone, _ I’d better get studying, then _ .

He took his pen off the marred corner of his notepad and clicked it decisively off. He put it between his teeth like a flamenco dancer’s rose or the block of wood in the mouth of an unanaesthetised patient, and stared hard at the page in front of him. The loopy scrawl, overembellished with curves and twists that soared across the page in a rush, was the writing of a madman. His leg jigged up and down. He slapped his hand to it and forced it to lie still against the plastic seat of his chair. His eyes and mind honed in on the page, while his body, self absorbed thing, prepared itself for neglect.

~*~

Vincent clicked the door to his apartment closed and lay his keys on the kitchen bench. The morning sun filtered gently through his blinds, not obtrusive like that midday sun he’d been coming home to since Jack had fallen ill a week ago. Finally, a normal eight hour shift. 

Something was trapped inside him, and now, coming home to this small apartment and staring from one end of his quarters to the other in a single gaze, that something was trying to crawl up and out of him. He swallowed hard and turned to the pantry, granite coloured cupboards with silver handles that were cool no matter what. Only dry pasta sat within them. 

He checked the freezer. Mixed frozen vegetables and discounted crumbed chicken breast. They would do. He turned the oven on, sprayed a pan with non-stick oil, dumped the chicken onto it and shoved it in the oven before it had heated up. He set the timer for fifteen minutes, whereupon he would turn the chicken over and start preparing the vegetables.

Now, what to do? He flomped onto the couch and stared at the black screen of the TV, showing him a dark, blurry reflection of himself. He looked positively ghoulish. Good thing he didn’t look _ quite _ that bad in reality.

He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and sent a text to Lain: ‘Are you going to study today?’

He wasn’t quite sure, himself, whether it was a command or a question of genuine interest. He partially wanted him to say, ‘No, I’m going to force you to do something really stupid with me, today.’ 

The real response was: ‘Yes! I already am! First exam is tomorrow!’

Vincent couldn’t help but smile. So the guy really did care about passing. He sent back a message of good luck, then slumped to the side and lay his head against the sole cushion of the couch. With his legs curled up and that smile on his face, he looked ten years younger.

~*~

Lain fidgeted with his pen, then slapped it firmly onto the desk. Someone had scrawled ‘I love you!’ into the desk, carving the words in with the nib of their pen. Their rough curves grazed against his hand. He got his protractor out of his pencil case and its glass container. Aiming it at the words like the nib of a calligraphy pen, he scratched gashes down them, until nothing was left but a ribbed, corrugated mess. He collected the shards of wood up and hid them in his pencil case, filed his protractor away and continued studying, suddenly more focussed and cool headed, sharp pens no longer digging into his brain. At least, until the words started fuzzing before his eyes. The tap against his shoulder was almost welcome.

Still, he whirled around in his chair with his best glare. Honestly. He might as well be at home, with all the distraction that entailed.

“Hi,” Todd said quietly, big eyes swimming in front of Lain.

“What do you want?” Lain hissed, glare decomposing into something worse.

“I wanted to make it up to you,” Todd said, his smile not faltering. “So things can be even.”

Lain’s expression, however, did falter. “How?”

“In my tutorial for criminal law, last week, we got given past essay questions and some model answers. Apparently, the questions don’t change that much from year to year, and only my tutor was handing them out, so…”

Todd extended a small stack of papers to Lain, who took them gingerly and scanned the first page.

“Why didn’t they give these to _ us _ ?” Lain demanded, then looked at Todd, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Your tutor’s a lazy ass, I guess.”

“I thought she was good…” Lain said, staring absently at the papers. “Well. Thank you.” He considered Todd solemnly for a moment, trying to read his face. It was too happy. But at least he was trying not to be a sulky baby. 

~*~

Last exam. Maybe this fidgeting would now stop, and the itch would let him be. Most of all, maybe his head would stop buzzing like static and he’d stop getting distracted by stupid things like scribblings on desks and stray pencils on the floor and people whispering quietly to each other. Of course, the advantage of less distraction would soon diminish in just under two hours.

But this – this was a ray of hope. Those past essay questions Todd had given him had not been a cheap ploy to get his attention. This question, right in front of him and commanding his compliance, was exactly like one of them. Perhaps a word or two had been changed, but the requirement was still the same, and he _ knew _ the requirement. 

As his hand flew across page after page, answering three other questions that had appeared in some form or other in the past, relief sunk into him like a fizzing lozenge into water. Not quite as calming as expected. In fact, his leg started to hop and he had to force his feet not to tap. When the old woman at the front of the lecture hall commanded all to place their pens on their desks, all of his cells seemed to be vibrating.

He gave Todd a half-hearted wave as he let the throng of students squash their way through the doors before exiting last. Outside, he let a gust of wind carry him towards an empty bench, and sat. After a moment of stillness, he got out his phone and sent Vincent a text.

‘I’m free! Are we still on for dinner?’

A text soon came back, saying, ‘Congratulations. Yes. I’ll be over at 6.’

He smiled, slipped his phone into his shoulder bag, and skipped his way to where his car was parked, while the wind sent his hair flying upwards.

~*~

Vincent walked up Lain’s driveway, the gravel crunching through the soles of his shoes. Before he got to the steps, Lain was at the doorway, beckoning with his entire arm, then darting back inside the house. In that small moment, the green of his eyes flashed, exacerbated by the forest pattern on his clingy, high necked t-shirt.

Vincent, on the other hand, entered slowly, haltingly, pausing in the living room as he made his way through it and into the kitchen, where Lain was twisting salt and pepper containers over a large bowl. The cracking noise made Vincent wince.

“Sorry,” Lain said, putting the containers down and turning to Vincent, dusting off his hands. “All done, now. It’s salad. For those of us who don’t like food.”

Vincent couldn’t think of anything dry to say in return, and his, “Oh,” disappointed him terribly. Still, Lain’s smile looked like it was written with a sparkler. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I know!” Lain said, wishing Vincent hadn’t said that. “Even though it wasn’t that long… Maybe we need more friends.”

Vincent shrugged while trying not to let on that he didn’t think it would make that much difference.

“I guess I’ll serve us up,” Lain said, turning back to the bowl. As he took it into the dining room, Vincent retrieved two glasses from an overhead cupboard and filled them with tap water. He followed Lain and sat down in front of a neatly set wicker placemat, the plate, knife and fork glinting with a frightening shine.

While Lain filled each of their plates with green leaves that matched his t-shirt that matched his eyes, along with more subsidiary colours, he asked, “How’s work been?”

“Fine,” Vincent said. “Drew seems mostly alright, if you care.”

“Good!” Lain said, voice catching, and he sat down heavily. “Any interesting incidents?”

“There was a crazy man setting fire to rubbish bins and I thought of you,” Vincent said, smirking. He waited for Lain to pick up his fork, then started eating, himself. His throat constricted as he swallowed, and his stomach tensed, but the food went down.

“Oh!” Lain smiled, enjoying, on the other hand, the distraction that eating provided, though it couldn’t distract him from Vincent’s tense jawline, jutting like an arrow pointing at something. “Would I like him?”

“I doubt it,” Vincent said. “His beard came half way down his torso and was filled with bits of food.”

“Oh, God! That made you think of me?” Lain put a hand to his mouth.

“ _ That bit _ only made me think of how you would have reacted.”

“And what did you hypothesise?”

“Washing your eyes so much that the tear film would come off.”

“Tear film?”

“The layers of mucus, water and lipids that stop your eyes from getting dry.”

“You sound like a judgemental encyclopaedia!”

“You think I’m wrong?”

“Yes! I would have washed my entire body, for fear that his stench might have contaminated me.”

“Right.” Vincent put his fork down, giving his throat a rest. Perhaps he wasn’t hungry, though his stomach felt like a heavy cavern.

Lain eyed the discarded fork and said, “That's not unreasonable."

The fork remained at the edge of Vincent’s plate, and his hand wasn’t even near it, anymore. It had migrated to his lap, hidden and pinching at his other hand, even though he was, in fact, engaged in the ridiculous conversation. Lain kept eyeballing the fork, though he tried not to. He only had about two mouthfuls left on his plate, and Vincent wasn’t even half way through his.

Vincent caught his eye and said, “I’m just not very hungry. You did a good job.”

“How much have you been eating, lately?” Lain asked, trying to keep his voice calm, a lid firmly held atop a boiling pan, the handle heating up.

“Enough,” Vincent said tersely. “How much have you been sleeping?”

“I haven’t been doing it on purpose,” Lain said, touching the tender, grey skin under his eyes.

“Neither am I.” Vincent’s face was cold and sharp, the cheekbones seeming to jut out further.

“Then what’s wrong?” Lain’s voice heightened.

“Nothing,” Vincent said a little too firmly.

“Then why can’t you eat?”

“I _ can _ eat. I _ just _ ate.”

“Just, like, two leaves.”

“Don’t exaggerate. Why are you disappointed? You know I don’t get as hungry as you.”

“Have you _ really _ been eating as much as you need?” Lain’s angry tone lent an accusatory edge to his words.

“For God’s sakes.” Vincent pressed a temple with the palm of his hand. “Stop making a big deal out of this.”

“Like you’re not! Like you don’t act like eating the right amount is a gluttonous waste!”

“You think you know the right amount, don’t you?”

“I have more of an idea than you!”

“And glutting yourself on every piece of chocolate you see is part of that?”

“Sorry for not wanting to live like an angry, hateful version of a monk! Sorry for being concerned about your welfare!”

“I’m not going to die of starvation. I’m not like you. I have self control.”

“Fine! Don’t eat it!” Lain whacked at the bowl in between them, sending it and the rest of the salad flying across the table in a violent pirouette.

“Thanks for the option!” Vincent shoved his chair back from the table, its heels screaming, and marched from the room and out of the house.

Lain picked up his fork and flung it at him, and it clanged against the wall, putting a scrape in the wallpaper. He sat still for a moment, every part of his body tense, yet inflamed with a rattling, feverish restlessness that thudded his heart around his body.

He got up. Paced. Pulled at his hair. Punched the wall. Picked up the phone. Gnawed at the antennae. Let it fall to the floor.

Crunching steps outside sent him into the hallway. Vincent was there. Pale, leaning against the door until it closed, fingers splayed like each were being pulled from their sockets. They gulped in unison, hovering there for a moment, imperceptibly leaning forwards, then tumbled into each other, gripping clothes, chests, backs, and kissing harder than any punch.

Lain whined into Vincent’s mouth and shoved him back against the door. There was nothing in between them – not one single atom, not one single thought. It was barely pleasurable. It was just closeness. Pressing, hot, delirious closeness, head spinning, consciousness coiling downwards. Vincent’s knees buckled, and he slumped against Lain, his grip waning for a moment, their lips dislodging and sliding apart. He looked up at Lain and they laughed, soft and cracking, as he hefted himself upright.

Their second kiss was softer, and felt like drowning – wet immersion in each other. Lain pulled at Vincent’s shirt and walked backwards, towards the stairs, he assumed, until his back hit the stairwell and he almost bit his tongue, which was, admittedly, straying from his own mouth. Vincent rubbed at his back, and the stretchy material of Lain’s t-shirt caught and rode up, so that his hand brushed soft, bare skin and his breath caught. That noise was so adorable to Lain that he broke the kiss and peeled off his shirt. Vincent’s flushed, pink cheeks became crimson, and Lain kissed them both.

It only took a moment of his bare chest grazing against the rough, cheap material of Vincent’s shirt for Lain to start tugging at its top button. When, after a second, it wouldn’t unhook, he yanked it until the thin, loose thread snapped and the button flung itself over the stairwell, all subsequent buttons quickly relinquishing their hold, to avoid the same fate.

Lain nudged his hips against Vincent’s, pushing him backwards and up the stairs and causing him to leave his breath down below. With every step upwards, Vincent became momentarily taller than Lain and their kiss became looser, until Lain surged upwards to tighten his hold.

They finally made it to the bed, unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped trousers slipping off their waists, underwear pulled out of the way, erect cocks crossing, and crossing, and crossing, rough and barely co-ordinated and dizzyingly perfect. Vincent fell backwards onto the bed, as pliant as ever under Lain’s persuasive strokes, his hands snagging in Lain’s magnificently vertical hair. And then a moment where everything dissolved in hot, wet throbs that left their bodies heavy and panting.

Lain got up and came back with a cloth, wiped them both clean, disappeared again to rinse the cloth, then let himself fall onto the bed, facing the ceiling and its twirling pattern. This night, it was shimmering in multicolour. Vincent hadn’t moved, and didn’t move until Lain stirred again and started treading light kisses down his neck.


	13. Chapter 13

They lay side by side, close, but not touching. Vincent’s arms were folded over the sheet like a paperclip, rigid and straight, breath coming shallow, eyes wide and staring past the ceiling. Lain was curled in the foetal position, tuft of blanket clutched tightly in his fist, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, heavy but restless. He sat up, cast a languid glance at Vincent, who had clamped his eyes closed at the movement, and eased himself off the bed. Vincent opened his eyes just in time to see his pale, naked body leave the room, and heard his footsteps recede down the stairs. He looked over at the place he’d been lying, creases in the sheets flowing off the bed as though they wanted to go with him. The clock on Lain’s bedside table caught his eye. Eleven. Not long before work. If work still existed.

Of course it existed. He got out of bed, and the air of the night whisked around his skin. The lamp, dressing table, bed, curtains and doors stared at him. The wardrobe door gaped open a little, a fold of material poking through. He opened it wide and flicked through what seemed like endless coathangers, until he found a black dressing gown that hung just above the floor when he put it on. The material was slippery; it felt like the ties would fall apart, but it would do.

He found Lain in the living room, sitting before a bowl on the coffee table filled with glowing orange flame. A fire extinguisher lay on its side by his feet. A wet cloth lay next to the bowl, and Vincent picked it up, making Lain’s eyes dart from the bowl to him.

“Don’t!” he pleaded like a child who’s toy was about to be thrown out.

Vincent sighed. “Do you want to get burnt?” His eyes couldn’t help sliding down Lain’s body, which was perfect, save for a little pink scar at the top of his right arm, and that was perfect, too.

Lain saw him looking and said, “Fine,” in a sullen, sultry tone.

Vincent threw the cloth over the flame, and Lain reached out to tug his waist tie loose, until the dressing gown fell open. A tingling blush burst against Vincent’s cheeks.

“I have to go to work,” Vincent said, though his loins were already starting to heat.

“Call in sick,” Lain said, and stood up gracefully.

“I never call in sick, even when I am sick,” Vincent said.

Lain stepped over the fire extinguisher and pressed himself against Vincent. “Then, they’ll believe you.”

Vincent tried to get his brain in working order, but an ash cloud was blowing into it, and he let out a half muffled moan. Lain gave him a hot, wet kiss and pushed the dressing gown off his shoulders.

“Quickly, before I go,” Vincent said against Lain’s mouth, and reached a hand down to clutch at their cocks, pressing them together.

Lain smiled slyly and yanked his hand away by the wrist. Vincent slapped his arm and looked at him firmly.

“Quickly,” he said.

Lain let out a little whine, nuzzling his head into Vincent’s neck, then kissed him hard and rocked against him, their arms slapping as they wound around each other.

~*~

Vincent shifted in the passenger seat. The material of the shirt and pants Lain had leant him felt too smooth, like the share price of a company would go down if he snagged a thread. At least they were black and plain. And he could briefly stop thinking about Lain’s skin shifting around inside them, sometimes.

Lain’s hand _ was _ shifting inside the shirt, snaking inside the collar and stroking Vincent’s chest. Vincent forcibly pulled it out (mostly, he was forcing himself) and placed it on the wheel that Lain was letting slide through one hand.

“Drive properly,” he said, gripping his pant leg and trying to calm his heartbeat. And then he remembered they weren’t his pants and it sped back up a little.

“You’ll come straight back, won’t you?” Lain asked, glancing at Vincent.

“I need some sleep,” Vincent said. “I’ll come back sometime in the afternoon.”

Lain made a little noise of consternation and frowned at the road disappearing beneath the car.

“You need sleep, too,” Vincent said and folded his arms tightly across his chest. He stared out the window so he wouldn’t get swayed by Lain’s face.

Lain glared at him, then back at the road. It was easy for him to say. How was he supposed to sleep, _ now _ ? How was he supposed to sleep, _ ever _ ? What good could possibly come from being left alone to think about what had just happened?

He parked the car outside the police station and unbuckled his seatbelt so that he could lean over and kiss Vincent on the lips.

Vincent pushed him off and growled, “Not here.”

“Work hard. Sleep well,” Lain said, unsettlingly benign, and kissed him again before leaning back in his seat and smiling sweetly at Vincent.

“Bye,” Vincent said harshly, unbuckled his seatbelt and wrenched the car door open. As he got out, he turned back and said, “Thanks for the ride. Remember to sleep.”

He strode into the police station and nearly jumped when Drew popped up beside him.

“Hi, Vincent. Are those new clothes?” she asked, falling into step beside him.

“No,” he said firmly.

She raised an eyebrow, certain she’d never seen him in clothes of quality, and he quickened his pace, striding ahead of her, his head held high with a dignity he did not feel.

~*~

When he eventually made it home, he collapsed into bed still wearing Lain’s clothes and, miraculously, slept. Drew, on the other hand, stared into the dark of her bedroom without seeing her mattress, curtains, or dresser. She couldn’t stop thinking about that feverish blush Vincent kept getting, his eyes distracted and glazed until they blinked into alertness and the blush deepened. There was no other word for it but hot. She imagined pressing her own cheeks against them until they matched in colour and heat, and kissing them, and kissing his mouth. It didn’t matter how that blush came about… But it was probably Lain. Definitely Lain. Lain and his bright, intense eyes, biting his pink bottom lip and calling him Vincey.

With a start, she realised her hand was not safely outside her pyjamas, or even her underwear. It was rubbing along parts of her that…that…she had no idea about. She had no idea what she was doing. It just felt awkward and uncomfortable, anyway. Her hand sprung away and she rolled over, burying her face in her pillow.

~*~

Lain stared up at the stupid ceiling, certain it was starting to watch him through its swirls, then turned to his bedside clock. Nine o clock. Certainly a polite time to call someone, wasn’t it? He reached for his mobile, sitting next to his clock, and flicked through the address book. He started from the bottom up, just because he knew Vincent’s name would be there. He stared at it, ‘Vincey’, and pressed it, telling himself he couldn’t help it. It rang five times, then went to answerphone, while Vincent slept nearby. 

He clicked back downwards, and called Yelizabeta. The same result, though it rang nine times. He flicked through the rest of the names and winced. Most of these people hated him, now. He needed to start making friends who he didn’t want to take on a brief dating spree. Others had taken Ember’s side. 

Would it have to be Todd? That pathetic face wasn’t going to make him feel much better. But he _ had _ been playing nice. And hadn’t even hit on him, lately.

He tried calling him. No answer. He couldn’t tell how many rings that was, because they echoed shrilly in his ear long after he’d hung up.

The phone sat in his hand, a lump of plastic and glass and metal and uselessness, and he squeezed it as though it could suffocate. He was about to fling it across the room when it started ringing, and he dropped it in surprise. Retrieving it from the sheets, he hurriedly checked who the caller was. Todd. Oh. But still!

“Hello!” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Hi,” Todd’s voice came back. “It’s not often I get a call from you.”

“I just wanted someone to hang out with.”

“Really?” The eagerness of that reply was mildly disturbing, but less so than the thought of spending the day alone.

“Yes. Do you want to come over and watch DVDs, or something?”

“Yeah, of course! Want me to bring any over?”

“If you want. I have plenty here, though.”

“What time can I come?”

“Up to you. I just have stuff to do this evening.”

“Okay! I’ll come over at ten thirty.”

God bless his enthusiasm.

“Sounds good! See you then.”

“See you!”

Lain lay back in his bed and sighed in relief.

~*~

“Hi, Lain! You look good. The start of the holidays must agree with you,” Todd said as Lain let him inside. He stared all about him, taking in the parquet floor, the lovely, subtle swirls of the wallpaper, the gilt framed mirror, the teak hallway table adorned with a hat, keys, and an umbrella. Everything had a sheen of well-kept age.

“Thanks,” Lain said. “Though I don’t like the implication that I didn’t look good yesterday.”

He led Todd through to the living room, where the coffee table was laid with crackers, three kinds of dip and a selection of DVDs with the neatness of boredom.

“You just looked stressed, is all,” Todd said, grinning at the display as though it wouldn’t have been done for anyone else. “I’ve never seen you get stressed before. Unless you count the weird manic stuff.”

“I just had a lot on my mind,” Lain said, avoiding stating that the ‘weird manic stuff’ felt a little closer than he would have liked.

He sat down on the three seater couch and leant against the arm rest, and Todd sat next to him, in the middle, forgoing an armrest in order to sit _ right _ next to him.

“If you want to talk to me about it, you can,” Todd said.

Lain was sure neither of them would like that. “It’s okay,” he said. “I want to relax. And think about something completely unrelated to my life.” He gestured to the DVDs.

Todd started and pulled a couple more out of his bag. “I’ll add these to the choices,” he said. “I really think that you would like them. This one reminds me of you so much.” He handed one to Lain. The cover showed a couple sitting forlornly on a craggy shore. Lain tried not to screw his face up too much and put it with the others. “And this one’s just hilarious.”

Lain barely glanced at the ‘hilarious’ DVD, but held it tight. “I could definitely go for something light-hearted.”

He got up and put it in the DVD player, retrieving the remote on his way back. When he sat back down, he squished himself further against the armrest than before, so there was a little more space between him and Todd. It wasn’t that he thought he would do anything creepy. It was just that the guy’s feelings were somewhat terrifying. 

The movie started after a few flicks through ads, and Lain managed to absorb himself in the antics of the three young men on the screen, slumping against the armrest and using a pillow to prop his head up. When the most conventionally attractive of the actors took off his shirt, revealing one of those supposedly necessary six packs, Todd let out a little sigh. Lain glanced at him, but he hurriedly started checking his nails for dirt.

When the movie finished, Lain asked, “Do you want some lunch?”

Todd looked at the half-empty bowl of crackers and said, “A little bit. Thanks.”

“I have some leftover lasagne. Do you want that?” Lain asked, hefting himself off the couch. 

“Sure!” Todd said.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Lain retreated to the kitchen. The phone immediately caught his eye, and his chest ached as he passed it by and retrieved the lasagne from the kitchen. Vincent would probably make fun of him for radiating leftovers in the microwave and calling it a meal. It did seem at odds with his immoderate lifestyle. But it agreed wholeheartedly with his leaden limbs. _ But, _ he told his body, _ if you’re so tired, why can’t you fall asleep? _

He brought the lasagne into the living room in two bowls on two trays. Todd was pouring over the DVDs on the coffee table.

“Thanks!” he said, and took the tray Lain handed him. “Shall we watch this one, next?” he asked, pointing to a mystery/action film Lain had seen about ten times.

“Okay,” Lain said. “It’s very good.” He set his tray down on the coffee table and went to put the DVD into the player.

They watched it, eating their slightly rubbery lasagne, and the thick heat of it settled in Lain’s stomach comfortably. He took their trays and dishes away to the kitchen, and when he sat back down on the couch, he slumped even further into the armrest than before, the cushion under his cheek feeling like a bed pillow. As the angle of his body became more obtuse, his leg started to push against Todd’s, but it seemed too difficult to move, and it was nice to have some physical contact.

Todd slowly noticed how deep Lain’s breathing was, and realised with dismay that that lovely pressure on his leg was not on purpose. He pulled his eyes away from the TV screen to gaze at Lain, his chest rising and falling under his fitted blue shirt. A few strands of his black hair were obscuring his face, so Todd pushed them back behind his ear like an explorer pushing aside tree fronds to expose a beautiful meadow in the midst of a dark wood.

He looked back at the TV, because he barely had a clue what was happening in the movie and wanted to find out. Still, as the it squealed down the violin string of its plot, he kept stealing glances back at Lain, unaware of the dreams that tumbled through his head in a blur of dangerous warmth that surely, surely, was about to burn.

When the movie finally tied those loose ends that had been flapping in the breeze together, Todd got up and wandered around Lain’s house. He scanned the bookshelf and made a mental note of a couple he would need to read, to spark some conversation. The study was a mess of study guides and notes that were out of order and barely separated by subject. There were five spare bedrooms, all made neatly with colour coordinated furnishings. The floor of the storeroom had chips of glass, jems and pearl scattered across the floor and over a black patch in the wood. His bedroom – the only used one in the house – was the roomiest twenty-three year old’s bedroom Todd had ever seen. The bed was made, though creases roamed far more freely here than on the spare beds. A little stack of black clothes lay at the foot of the bed. Todd inspected them. The material was rough and pilled and the stitching was starting to escape from its not-quite-straight rows. Nothing Lain would wear. 

Todd immediately stepped away from it, breath starting to seethe. Then he darted forward and grabbed it. The material twisted in his grasp, his fingers catching in the folds, pulling it this way and that, as he gritted his teeth, his thoughts coarse like sand, scraping painfully through his mind. The stitching gave way and a sleeve came away from a shoulder. His arms sunk and hung at his sides, hands still gripping the shirt. A pair of trousers and briefs still lay on the bed. He grabbed them and marched out of the room, straight for the nearest cupboard door.

It was filled with towels, sheets and suitcases, and was bigger than some people’s bedrooms. He shut it and kept marching down the hall, where another cupboard lay. It was just as big and filled with matches, lighters, lighter fluid, a gas burner and fire extinguishers. There was also a long, thin machine with a nozzle at the end, which Todd only glanced briefly and fearfully at, before choosing an ordinary lighter.

He took it and the clothes to a bathroom at the far end of the hall, furthest from Lain’s room and the stairs, and shoved the clothes in the large marble sink. With a click of the lighter, they started to burn, slow and satisfying, the flame creeping along the hem of the pants and growing larger. Even Lain would appreciate this.

When the clothes were half burnt, Todd heard a knock at the door, and a jolt of electric guilt jarred him. He hurriedly turned on the tap and splashed the water around until the fire was out, then scampered downstairs. No movement from Lain. Todd wondered why Lain hadn’t closed the gates after he’d let him in.

He edged towards the front door, then put on his most confident smile and opened it. When he saw it was Vincent, that black-clad skeleton man, his smile faltered, if only for a second.

“Hello, um. I’m here to see Lain,” Vincent said, looking with alarm at Todd, taking in his dishevelled hair, wild smile, and the fact that he was the guy who’d helped spike Lain’s drink and, worst of all, sought to obtain Lain. 

“Oh,” Todd said with false, gleeful embarrassment. “He’s asleep.”

“Okay,” Vincent said, trying to process this.

“We’ve had a big day,” Todd said confidentially, raising an eyebrow.

Vincent swallowed, his lips pinching.

“I guess you know how it is. He’s quite…needy…in that department.” Todd said, winking. Then, to make sure the point really sunk in, “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume. Not _ everyone’s _ had sex with him.”

“Enough, I suppose,” Vincent said slowly, quietly, his eyes losing focus. The human shape in front of him blurred into a splodge of brown and beige and blue.

“Give him a call if you want to see him, I guess. Make sure he’s free,” Todd said, his triumphant smirk going unseen, before he slammed the door in Vincent’s face.

Vincent jumped and stared at the door; the lines in the woodwork seemed to crawl up and away, just like his skin was, just like his feet now did, slowly, slowly, back to the bus stop, where he swayed as he waited, and stepped on whatever bus first came, and paid whatever fare was requested.

All through the bus ride, he had only one thought: _ I am an idiot _ . All others were too afraid to come out, and hid in his stomach and chest, causing them to stretch painfully with the pressure.

~*~

Lain’s eyes slowly blinked their way open, and the first thing he noticed was an aching kink in his back. It had almost moulded to the shape of the couch, twisted sideways at an unnatural angle.

He sought out the clock on the wall next to the bookshelf, and started, suddenly fully awake. Five o’ clock. Surely Vincent would be finished sleeping now, or soon.

“Hey! You’re awake!” Todd’s voice came from beside him, and Lain looked at him in surprise, then his memory slowly regrouped. It seemed that Todd had just kept on watching movies, judging from the action flick flashing on the TV.

“Sorry,” Lain said, sitting up and knocking into Todd. He shuffled sideways and away from him.

“The movie’s almost over, I think,” Todd said. “Want to go out for dinner, afterwards?”

“Sorry, I can’t,” Lain said. “I have plans.”

“I see,” Todd said, and Lain, even in his bleary-eyed state, could see the harsh glint that his smile threw off. “Well, it was still great to see you, even if you did sleep for half the time.”

“Thanks for coming over,” Lain said, giving him a grateful smile. “You were a big help.”

Todd beamed, then the glint was back, and his attention turned back to the movie. It seemed like it took an hour to finish, but the clock told Lain it was only fifteen minutes. He then got Todd to leave as quickly as possible, and gazed expectantly out the front door and past the retreating young man. Just the clouds and the trees and an old man across the road, all still, as though time was taking a break from its usual galloping pace.

He walked back inside and went straight for the phone. It was five thirty. If Vincent was still asleep, then he deserved to get woken up.

But those five rings only resulted in his answerphone, all three times. Lain pouted, then smiled. He could visit him at his place. And see his bed. And pin him to it.

He put the phone back in its charger and half-skipped to the entryhall to retrieve his car-keys. On the way to Vincent's apartment, he may have sped. But he figured such a circumstance would lend him a heightened collection of senses. If he were ever capable of speeding responsibly, it was now.

Finding a park was not the easiest thing, but he found one around the block that would let him stay for two hours if he paid twenty dollars. It would be wise not to tell Vincent about that. Receipt in place on the windscreen, completely authorised to be there, he walked quickly back to the apartment building, a hop in his step. When he got to the entrance, blocked by a glass door that caught like an invisible hand was clutching the handle if you tried to force it, he stared at the intercom and the rows of buttons next to it. It had been so long since he’d been there that the right apartment number was hidden in his brain under what had previously appeared to be far more important information about Vincent.

When he finally remembered that elusive number, he pressed the button for 68 firmly for two seconds and waited, rocking onto the balls of his feet.

Click. “Hello?” That was Vincent, but he sounded as though his voice were clogged with stone. 

“Hey, Vincey! I got impatient,” Lain said, trying to sound more casual and less needy than he felt.

“It seems you did,” Vincent said. “Look. I misunderstood. Or you’re the worst person on the planet. I don’t know. Probably both.”

“What?” Lain’s voice rose and cracked, and it felt like his mind did, too.

“I know what you did. And maybe you can justify it to yourself, with your fucked up morals, but not to me.” Vincent’s voice rose and clenched around his anger the more he spoke.

“What I did? Hold on – what did I do? Come down and talk to me. You’re not regretting last night, are you?”

“Of course I am! I can’t come down. Unless you want a punch in the face.”

Click.

Lain pressed the button again. And again. And again. And again.

He composed himself, ran a hand through his hair, dabbed at his eyes, and walked slowly back to his car, which seemed to take him home of its own accord, for his brain wasn’t focussing on the wheel or the pedals or the gear stick or that world beyond the windscreen. He walked up his front steps, the stone feeling like nothing under his feet. He unlocked the door. Stepped inside. Shut the door. Slid down the streaks in its wooden surface, down to his knees, tipped forwards, lay his forehead against the floor, and let out a sob that convulsed his entire body, it was so large, deep and keening.


	14. Chapter 14

Lain woke up without realising he’d fallen asleep, with his cheek pressed against the wooden floor, no doubt receiving a dent, the skin around his eyes sticky with half-dried tears, and a trilling coming from his pocket. He hurriedly slipped it out and pressed it to his ear without checking who was calling, because he _ knew _ who was calling.

“Hello!” His voice cracked on relief and overuse.

“Hey, Lain,” Yelizabeta said, thudding the hope painfully out of him. “Sorry I didn’t answer, this morning. I was in an exam and left my phone at home. I had two, today, but now it’s all over! So, what’s up?”

“Oh, thanks for calling back,” Lain said softly. “I just wanted someone to hang out with.”

“Sorry about that,” she said. “Did you have a nice day, anyway?”

“Sort of,” he said. His breathing started to escalate into quick rattles, and his tear ducts stung as they overflowed.

“Are you okay? What happened?” Her voice slid quickly into sympathetic and direct.

“I – ah – I don’t know,” he got out through the breaths that were starting to sound like sobs.

“Are you sad ‘cause something happened or are you just sad?” she asked.

“Something happened.”

“Can you tell me what it is?”

“Vincey hates me,” the words spilt out like vomit. He gasped, then true cries tumbled out, falling over each other to escape his heaving chest.

“Okay, don’t move, I’m coming over,” she said, and hung up, leaving him free to clutch at his torso with both hands and cry with no restraint.

Of course he knew what he’d done wrong. To seduce such a man. Such a painfully perfect man. To taint him. To wipe his slimy underside all over him, like a snail on a leaf. He didn’t deserve to be friends with him, let alone madly grope him.

No, no – it wasn’t like that. Vincent had come back after their fight. They’d kissed each other. Touched each other. Vincent had been happy. He’d been reluctant to go to work. He only went because he couldn’t stand to call in sick.

But how could Lain, such a wilful whore, ever imagine the disgust Vincent must have felt for the both of them?

But he _ knew _ he’d felt something, even before, there was always something there, pulling at their skins.

But…either way, there was a truth bubbling away inside Lain, scalding his insides and choking him as he cried. The truth was that this rejection should not have been so painful. That this person should not have felt so essential. No matter who was good and who was bad, this searing, dizzying pain should not have been pressing Lain against the floor.

A knock on the door. She’d keep knocking until he got up. So he did, and it wasn’t as impossible as it had seemed, though his head spun and he had to brace himself against the wall. But opening the door was worth it, for she was there in calm, pastel pink and beige, skirt draping about her legs, no chiffon today.

“Look at you,” she said, and bit her lip as she smoothed a side of his hair down and rubbed his cheek.

She stepped over the threshold and took him in her arms, encasing him in her warm, rose scent. He sank into her, burying his head in her shoulder, squishing his leaking eyes closed and clutching at her soft t-shirt. Holding him upright like this eventually tired her arms and calves, so she pried him off and held him by the shoulders.

“Have you slept much, lately?” she asked, and he shook his head. “Do you feel like you could?”

He considered this, the memories of passing out on the couch and the floor slowly surfacing from the deep water filling his mind, and nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go make some relaxing tea and then go to bed.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where she walked straight to the pantry and found the relaxing tea as though it were her pantry. The tea hadn’t been touched since the last time she’d rushed over in a hurry.

While she boiled the jug and found a mug, he leant against the bench, swallowing hard and blinking his welling eyes. His long eyelashes became wet, gleaming in the low light.

“Here we go,” she said when the tea was ready, and carried it upstairs for him, while he followed slowly, holding onto the banister. The water in his mind was rising upwards, and wading through it made walking more difficult.

She set the mug on his bedside table and turned to his dresser, where she found a comfortable looking set of pyjamas, complete with elastic waistband.

She took them to him, then said, “I’ll just go to the bathroom,” and retreated to the en suite.

When she came back into the room, he was curled up on the bed with only his belt and half his shirt off. She rolled him over and took the rest of his shirt and his pants off, while he flinched and mumbled something about it being okay. She ignored him and dressed him like she used to dress her ragdolls, then yanked the bedcovers from under him and folded them over him. He snuggled into them as best he could, though the usually soft material seemed to scratch his skin like something Vincent would probably sleep in. Though the hand that brushed through Lain’s hair and wiped at his eyes wasn’t his, it was nice. Soft, cushioned little fingers, not rough, skinny ones, rasping along his cheeks. But still. The water kept pouring in.

~*~

“Are you honestly okay?” Drew asked, staring Vincent dead in the eyes, but he turned to look out the side window of the I-car, as if hiding his waxen face and glazed, swimming eyes from her would convince her they’d never existed.

“I’m fine,” he said, furrowing his brow and biting the inside of his cheek.

He knew she would understand, but he felt no capacity to voice what had happened, what he was thinking, and, least of all, what he was feeling. He could only bring himself to try to regain the stony face he’d always had, though any attempt seemed to make that concerned crease in her forehead even deeper.

“Okay,” she said. “You can talk to me about it, if you want – you have to understand that. But I won’t mention it again.”

“Thank you,” he said, and went back to watching the road intently for both other cars and low-lifes.

She did the same, until an incident came through on the radio and they sped off to the street specified. Sped was definitely the word. Drew felt her torso shunt back into her seat, and had to grip the door handle to stop herself from losing balance on the corners, which did not seem to warrant slowing down, in Vincent’s eyes.

“This is a little fast,” she said. “I thought you liked rules.”

“Don’t you want to get there quickly?” he said through his teeth. “I’ve got the siren on.”

“Just be careful,” she said, twitching as he swerved around a car that was making way for them.

He parked outside the rowdy house party, almost hitting the kerb, and Drew clutched the door frame as she got out, noticing that the partygoers hadn’t moved beyond yelling and shoving, yet. But Vincent was glaring at the pair who were fighting like they were wild animals throwing excrement at each other.

He marched up to them, feeling a pang slice through his chest, while Drew hurried after him. She kept on past him, anxious to get there first. The crowd milled around the two young men who were yelling at each other, and was easy to push aside, the tension in each limb she encountered snapping in relief.

As she approached, the larger of the two men shoved the other, saying, “I know you took it!”

“That’s enough,” Drew said in her most authoritative voice, showing her badge.

The larger man ignored her and addressed the crowd, “Who called the police? I can handle this on my own!”

“We’d rather you didn’t,” she said.

As Vincent walked in beside her, he caught the eye of the smaller man, who didn’t look relieved at all. His eyes were wide, the skin around them stretching to accommodate for them. Vincent was sure he had whatever it was that had been stolen.

“This is between us two,” the larger man was saying, “so fuck off.”

“It isn’t just between you two – you’re involving the entire party and much of your street, to the point where someone has called us. So, please, calm down and tell me what was stolen,” Drew said, keeping her voice level.

“Back off, bitch,” the man said through his teeth, shoving at her shoulder.

As he leant in, she winced at the level of alcohol on his breath – more fumes than air. She reached up to grab his arm, but a fist came sailing in from behind her, and, oh god, Vincent had just punched him in the nose.

He leant down and handcuffed the man, who was crouching, and he had to force his hands off his bleeding nose and behind his back.

“You’re under arrest for disturbing the peace and assaulting a police officer,” he said with a coldness that stung all who heard it. “And, no,” he continued, leaning down to the man’s ear, “you can’t deal with this on your own. You can’t make up your own rules.” He hefted the man up by his shoulders.

Drew noticed the other man starting to edge away, melding into the crowd, and latched her eyes onto his, beckoning him back. He shuffled forwards, again.

“What was it that you were looking for?” Vincent asked the larger man.

“My phone,” the man said sullenly. “It’s black and red and has a button on the left side missing.”

Drew turned to the smaller man and said, “Stand like a starfish, please.”

When he did so, gulping visibly, she started patting his pockets, and pulled something out of the right one. It was a phone, aptly matching the description.

“See, I knew what I was doing,” the larger man said, shoving his wrists against their bonds until Vincent jabbed him in the waist and his face screwed up in pain.

“It’s my own phone! He’s lying!” the smaller man said frantically.

“It matches the description. We’ll see who it’s registered under,” said Drew, walking around to handcuff him, too.

“Okay, okay! It’s his!” he blurted. “I wasn’t stealing it, though! I just wanted a phone number!”

Drew winced, but refrained from saying it was creepy.

Once the pair were stowed in the back seat of the I-car, Drew rounded on Vincent and whispered, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His face tightened in outrage.

“Don’t give me that look!” she said. “There was no need for that kind of violence! And I didn’t see you cleaning off his bleeding face.” She waved a plastic bag full of blood soaked tissues and wrinkled her nose, still feeling the stinging tingle of the man’s blood-germs on her hands, even though she’d just sanitised them.

“We don’t know what he would have done,” he said firmly, then his voice became softer. “People like that, you just don’t know.”

She frowned at him, caught between anger at his actions and sympathy for whatever was troubling him. 

“You explain that back at the station, then,” she said, then turned to the radio to update them on the situation.

He stared at the wheel, biting the inside of his cheek. The skin was starting to tear, but that just made the act even more effective. His rage wasn’t going away, though. His brain was throwing itself around his skull. It took a lot to keep such a cold, calm composure. She should have appreciated his efforts.

~*~

Todd whacked his hand against a wire fence, barely feeling the sting of the metal against his cold skin. The whole fence shook, a quivering oblong of crosshatched silver. Ember smirked and shoved her own hands in her fur-lined pockets, her stiletto narrowly avoiding a crack in the footpath. A streetlight lit up Todd’s mousey hair as he passed under it, while his brow kept his smiling eyes in shadow.

“Guess what?” he said, his next step more of a skip. He didn’t give Ember time to guess. “Lain invited me over, the other day. We watched movies. He fell asleep. Then that ugly cheekbones cop came looking for him, and I was all, no way, he’s too tired from fucking me, and he was all, gaaah, my soul is crushed, and skulked off to his coffin-bed or something.”

“You git!” Ember shoved his shoulder, and he fell into the fence, laughing. “Lain’s gonna hate you when he finds out.”

“He might not tell,” he shrugged, though his throat constricted.

“I bet he will,” she said, “and Lain’ll puke at the thought, and the myth will be crushed.”

“Fuck you!” he yelled, leaping up and shoving her back. 

She teetered on the lip of the footpath, almost falling on a parked car, while he ran ahead. The warm glow of a pub engulfed him and sucked him in through its doors. She imagined ditching him and walking home, but the group of thick-set men on the other side of the road whistled at her cloaked figure and stockinged legs, and she trotted in after Todd.

~*~

Lain woke up, but his head felt heavy and waterlogged, so the wakefulness didn’t seem real, more like the trick of a dream. A slow, lethargic dream that meandered through his consciousness like homesick travellers on a hot summer’s day. Yelizabeta’s soft, little hands guided him through such activities as shaving, showering, dressing and eating breakfast. He knew that he would not have pulled himself out of bed, let alone done any of those things, without her.

He wanted to thank her, but, instead, he said, “I’m sorry. There are probably a billion things you’d rather be doing.”

She turned away and winced at the strained creak of his voice.

“No way,” she said. “If I was doing anything else, I’d just be fretting about you. I didn’t have any plans, anyway, so it’s good to have the company.”

“Thanks for lying to make me feel better,” he said, leaning his arms on the dining table and burying his head in them.

She turned back to him and ruffled his hair. “I’m not lying,” she said, and picked up his empty bowl of cereal. She took it into the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher, then came back, saying, “How about we cook lunch together, later?”

He thought he shouldn’t be so gluttonous, and just eat dry crackers, but the idea of arguing seared his brain painfully, so he just nodded and blinked tears away.

She sat back down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll put a DVD on for you, and then I’m going to go home and have a shower and get changed. And come straight back. Okay?” He nodded. “Good,” she said, though she saw the fear glossing over his eyes at the mention of such a short period of alone time. What would he do while she was at work, tomorrow?

~*~

He did nothing. Well, his stomach did pull him out of bed and towards the kitchen, but pouring a bowl of cereal got a bit hard when his hand slipped on the packet, so he ate an entire packet of cookies. He didn’t feel guilty; they would make him feel better.

He did feel guilty.

When Yelizabeta came back, she helped him make dinner, which turned out to be guiding him to the pantry, the stove, the fridge, the sink, instructing him when to stir, when to pour, even though they both knew he knew how to cook pasta. But his brain was too waterlogged, and that water threatened to leak out of his eyes whenever something seemed a little too hard or confusing. And everything did.

So she came and went, staying as much as she could while also trying to work as much as she could, what with it being the holidays. His expression when she left him turned from fear to calm resignation, but it didn’t seem like a step up, especially considering that every time she came home he was lying in a similar position to when she’d left him.

When, after five days, she tentatively asked, “What happened between you and Vincent?” he smiled sadly, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes.

“I think I know why he hates me,” he said softly, voice shaking. “He thinks I made him just another fuck. And…why wouldn’t he? I am that terrible, and he knows that too well.”

“Did you have sex with him?” she asked, shifting on the couch to face him, a realisation blooming in her mind.

He nodded morosely. “I couldn’t help it. And it seemed that way for him, too.”

“Maybe he’s scared. You always said you thought he was asexual. Maybe he’s not used to those feelings and he’s running away.”

“But why would that make him hate me so much? He was so mad…”

“Maybe he was just pretending to be mad, to make you go away.”

“I’d rather things go back to the way they were before, than to not be friends anymore.”

“You could try telling him that. Take away the pressure to acknowledge any sexual feelings he has.”

“I could…” He stared at his knees, a shadow clearing from his eyes, but then his brow creased and the shadow was back.

“What?” she urged, placing a hand on his back.

His head swam, and any thought of articulating what he was thinking made it slosh even more violently. His breathing started to catch in his throat, barely making it to his lungs, heaving as it lurched up and down his neck.

“How about I do it?” she asked, pulling out her mobile from her pocket. “He’s not scared of my phone number.”

He pressed his lips together, his breathing failing to calm, and she thought he would say no, but, instead, he got up and found his mobile in his study room, and brought it to her, showing Vincent’s phone number on the screen. As she dialled, he sat back down and leant against her side, sinking into her warmth and letting the vanilla scent of her shampoo ease his breathing, though he couldn’t stop focusing on its rate, depth and coarseness.

She gripped her skirt when the ringing stopped and a male voice came through the phone, “Hello, Vincent speaking.”

“Hello,” she said, trying to make her voice sound comfortable but not too breezy. “My name’s Yelizabeta. I’m a friend of Lain’s-“

“He asked you to call me?” he said abruptly, anger immediately crystalizing around his voice.

“I offered,” she said quickly, mind racing. “I just wanted to clear things up.”

“I’d rather not talk about it. I’d like to move on and get on with my life.”

“But Lain really misses you. If you’re not happy with what happened between you, going back to the way things were is fine. There’s no pressure to continue in…that vein.”

“I’ll thank you two to stop talking about me behind my back, especially if he’s going to leave important things out.”

“Then what’s bothering you? Maybe we can-“

“I can’t reconcile it. Just tell him to look at himself in the mirror and move on.”

She swore she heard the tiniest of cracks in his voice before he hurriedly hung up the phone and the dial tone thumped her failure into her. Turning her phone off and placing it neatly in her lap, she turned to Lain, who was staring at it with swimming eyes, again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He wouldn’t tell me what the issue was. But it’s clearly not what we thought. He said you left something out.”

“So it’s true,” he said in his most warbly voice yet. “I’m so terrible that I can’t even tell what terrible thing I’ve done. My moral compass is that screwed up.”

“Lain, no,” she said, trying to keep her voice firm through her frustration. “It’s possible that it’s his own moral compass that’s screwed up. Or something you did had unforeseen consequences and you didn’t realise it could turn out to hurt somebody. Either way, he’s a damn jerk for not even discussing what the problem is, and just expecting you to know.”

“Make him talk to me,” he said, turning his face into her shoulder and burying it there, where her warmth turned to stifling heat and his breaths caught in the cloth of her shirt.

~*~

Vincent threw his mobile onto the kitchen bench, and the loud clack of contact made him jump. He paced his small kitchen for a moment, ran a hand through his hair, then marched for the living room and the couch, throwing himself onto it. His leg started jigging, almost jumping. He checked his watch. Two hours left until work. Too far away. He needed more hours in his shifts. They’d increased some others’ to ten, but his remained at eight. Eight. Such a small number, swimming in a sea of frantic uselessness, boredom, and the nattering of his mind.

Work wasn’t much better, though. The concerned downturn of Drew's eyes seemed to be contagious to some of the more weak-hearted of their colleagues, especially Santha, who he’d thought was sensible. Their eyes seemed to meld into an over-sighted beast that watched him from the moment he entered the station and until he left. The I-car wasn’t much better, because it was _ always _ Drew. No one else could stand him.

The swing of the doors behind him felt like slams, battering against his head. The briefing slid into his ears and turned into rusty nails, jingling about his head.

He leant against the nearest desk while trying to keep his posture straight, and met Sergeant Green’s worried gaze levelly. It was like walking across the beam in gym class, knowing that no matter how perfectly he did it, Derek Farler was still going to push him over at lunchtime.

When he finally got to walk out to the I-car, Drew’s toes were almost nipping at his heels.

“Shall I drive, today?” she asked, catching up with him and walking by his side, her smile suspiciously genial, like they were old friends and nothing was ever wrong.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, staring ahead of them at the car, the leather on its wheel glinting like a real smile.

“Okay,” she said, as though it didn’t mean a thing to her. She almost hid her disappointment perfectly, and the telltale twist of her hands went unnoticed by him.

They went through their smooth routine of tuning the speedometer while only speaking when necessary, which both of them had almost become used to. The absence of her attempts to force him out of one-word conversation did leave a chasm in their... Drew would have called it their hearts, and Vincent wouldn’t have admitted there was a chasm anywhere.

They drove through the streets, while streetlights left puddles of light now and then, casting groups of figures into relief. Two benches sat side by side, empty, their gum and guano ridden planks of wood gleaming golden, black and white. A pair in large, fur-lined parkas leant against each other down the road, forgoing the benches and crouching on the concrete footpath, which was slightly cleaner. A pair of women clopped past them, arms linked and heads turned to each other. A dark figure shot past, then caught there, pulling. Pulling at the handbag that was clutched in one of the women’s fists. Two more fists joined them, as the other woman latched onto it, too, but the figure, materialising as a man, now that the hood of his sweatshirt had slipped down, was still gaining traction, pulling them down the road as more of the handbag’s strap was coiled into his grasp.

Vincent stopped the car and Drew bolted out, running at the struggling three while aiming her Taser at the man. When the red dot shone on his chest, he gave one last yank at the handbag, toppling the women over and making them lose their grip, and ran with his spoils. He didn’t run away from Drew; he dodged past her and into the passenger seat of a nearby car, which sped off before he’d even closed the door.

Vincent leant over the passenger seat of the I-car, slammed the door Drew had left open, and took off after the car and its grey, square angles as it jerked down a side street.

Drew’s voice came over the radio, “Comms CAI6. I’m at a bag snatching incident at Frene Street; I’m out of the car. Vincent’s taken it down Derrid Street in pursuit of the thieves. I’m tending to the victims.”

“CAI6 Comms,” another voice spoke up, and Vincent gritted his teeth against what was coming. “You’re in a vehicle pursuit?”

“Comms CAI6 - in pursuit.” he said as sharply as he turned the next corner, seething when the car in front of him disappeared around a building. “Half a kilometer down Sefton Street, towards Eden Terrace. Black Holden Commodore rego alpha foxtrot golf three eight five.”

“CAI6, if there is any unjustified risk to any person, you are to abandon pursuit immediately - acknowledge.”

“CAI6 affirm.”

“CAI6, please give us a SOWETO.”

“Alright,” he said tersely, hoping they could hear his tone and felt bad about it. They wouldn’t. They’d just gossip about how Vincent was rude and angry again. “The vehicle is travelling at 107 kilometers an hour. The occupants are two black-clad, adult men. Dry weather. Built-up area, apartments and offices, with a slight incline. Two other cars on this road, about five pedestrians. I am capable - know the area well, have pursued before,” he said, while his head sliced itself to shreds. His vision blurred for a moment, but he blinked the fog away and let the streetlights shine in his eyes, instead. They stood like giant needles, a point of pure white light threaded through each eye.

“CAI6 Comms Alpha, abandon pursuit now.”

“What?!” he demanded, his foot failing to leave the pedal.

“I say again, CAI6, abandon pursuit now.”

“CAI6 pulling over,” he said, bile rising in his throat as he lifted his foot slowly off the gas and parked the car at the side of the road, turning off the sirens. “CAI6 at a complete stop on Aster Street.” 

He didn’t ask why. He just placed his forehead against the steering wheel and squeezed his eyes closed, pretending the scenery was still rushing past him, but without the lights.

~*~

Should Drew have felt ashamed for hanging outside Sergeant Wilkinson’s office door for longer than necessary, like the rest of the magpie-eared staff around her? She decided not. That tone of his, loud enough to permeate the walls as it sliced through Vincent's pillar of silence and rigid posture, was not intriguing to her. It was concerning. The others may not have been concerned, but she was. And they _ all _ knew something was wrong. When she’d arrived back at the station with Vincent, Kelsey had whispered audibly to Farrah, “No wonder they took him off the chase.” That had dashed any hope of convincing Vincent that the conditions just hadn’t been safe.

She squirmed under Sergeant Rinset’s radar gaze, and shuffled off to the changing rooms. Sure, she didn’t feel ashamed for eavesdropping, but she’d always feel ashamed for looking lazy at work. When she was comfortably out of her stab-proof vest and into her cornflower blue skivvy, she headed for the locker room, ears straining. The office had gone quiet, but there was no sign of Vincent. So she retrieved her bag from her locker, double checking her bus pass was safely inside, and headed for home. As the cool air settled on her skin and penetrated the warmth of recent activity, she huddled up in her coat and shoved her hands in her pockets. It was even easier, now, to imagine Vincent’s hollow cheeks and darkly circled eyes, but no easier to imagine what was wrong. Except for the usual. She wondered if it had all become too much. In that case, only Lain could help. 

She got home, dumped her belongings on the couch and pulled her mobile out of her pocket. Then twisted it in her hands for a moment, before flipping through it for Lain’s number.

The phone rang, then Lain’s cheerful voice told her to leave a message, in a cheeky tone that implied he was busy doing something untoward.

“Hi, Lain, it’s Drew,” she said, trying to pretend he was on the other end, to banish the awkwardness of the answerphone. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed – you probably have and already know what the issue is – that Vincent’s been off colour, lately. I’m just worried about him, is all, and I thought you might know what’s up. Please give me a call. Maybe we can figure out a way to cheer him up! Or, at least, put him back in his normal mood. Bye!”


	15. Chapter 15

“I got a call, today, but I was too scared to answer it,” Lain said, showing Yelizabeta his phone and the new voicemail notification on its screen. 

“Too scared?” Yelizabeta said, alarmed, sitting next to him on the couch and taking the phone from him. “Or too lethargic?”

“No, scared,” he said. “It was Drew. The girl I went out with for a while, who works with Vincey. And likes him.”

“Oh, her!” she started. “Do you want me to listen to the message?”

“Yes.” He nodded earnestly.

She gave the phone back to him and he punched in the passcode, then handed it back to her. While she listened, he bit at a nail. Then she pressed 2 to save the message, just in case her paraphrasing didn’t satisfy him and his courage returned.

“She says Vincent doesn’t look too well, and she thought you might know why. She’s worried. Um, I don’t _ think _ she’s reaching for gossip,” she said, watching Lain’s flickering eyelashes.

“I see,” he said, almost primly, if not for the cracking and splintering of his voice.

“He’s kind of an idiot. Why’s he doing this if it’s making him sad, too?”

“Because I did something _ bad _ . It’s _ my _ fault he’s sad,” Lain said, the first time she’d heard him say something forceful since she’d dragged him up to bed with relaxing tea.

“Well. Even if you did, he’s stupid for not listening to you.”

“He’s not,” he said softly.

“ _ I _ think he is. And you used to make fun of him all the time, so.” She shrugged.

“That’s different,” he said slowly. “Stop trying to make me hate him.”

“I’m not trying to make you hate him. I’m just saying.”

“You are…”

“Look. How about I call Drew back and see what she says. Maybe we can get her to help us. I mean, maybe it would be a bit mean, since she likes him at all, but we could get her to talk to him.”

He took in a deep breath, and it seemed to have trouble getting back out. “He won’t listen to her. He already thinks she’s…naïve and soft.”

“Okay,” she said. “But I’m still going to talk to her.”

“Fine,” he said, turning away from her and laying his head against the armrest of the couch.

She walked out of the living room, taking his mobile phone with her, and sat herself behind the desk in his study. She only had to wait two rings before Drew answered, and it nearly startled her out of the chair.

“Hi, Lain,” Drew said apologetically.

“Hi, this isn’t actually Lain,” Yelizabeta interjected. “I’m his friend, Yelizabeta.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He’s a bit out of sorts at the moment, too. Well, quite.”

“Really? Oh, god, what’s happened? Did they fight?”

“Kind of. Vincent said Lain did something bad, but refuses to talk about what it is…refuses to talk much at all, really.”

“Sounds like him…”

“Apparently. He’s completely shut down communication with Lain, over god knows what, and Lain can barely get out of bed, he’s so depressed.”

“Oh no!” Drew almost squeaked. “Poor Lain… Maybe I can talk to Vincent! Do we have any clues about what he’s mad about?”

“Only,” Yelizabeta hesitated. “They, kind of, _ got closer _ before they fell apart. And Vincent seems to regret it.”

“He’d better not be making excuses! Don’t worry. I’ll do something about this. Thanks so much for calling back.”

“No problem,” Yelizabeta laughed dazedly.

“I’ll keep you posted. Bye!”

“Bye.”

Yelizabeta hung the phone up and blew the air out of her cheeks slowly, touching her forehead. That hadn't gone as expected. Still, she wasn't about to count on it. Lain shouldn't rely on Vincent for his lucidity. Especially if Vincent was this much of a stubborn, unfathomable idiot.

She went back into the living room to find Lain's face had migrated into one of the cushions. Sure, it was covered in a lovely green and pink rose material, but he wasn't conscious of that. She walked over to him and gently pulled the cushion from between his face and hand. It caught there for a moment, then his grip went slack and his head sagged with it.

"I talked to her," she said, tapping his head with the cushion. "she's going to try digging at him. Do you think he might have any closer friends?"

Lain shook his head, looking up at her with wide, pathetic eyes and making her realise she was standing over him a little too imposingly. She sat next to him on the couch.

"Everyone else thinks he's a bastard," he said. "Only Drew and I like him. Because everyone else is stupid."

She twisted her lips, begging to differ, but said nothing. With a little squeeze of his shoulder, she got up and walked towards the kitchen, then turned back, saying, "You should help me make dinner."

He hefted himself off the couch with both arms braced. Perhaps there was hope, even without Vincent's dubious help.

~*~

Ember threw her bag to the floor by the doorway and stormed into the kitchen for a glass of water, throwing it down her throat like it might quench the fire licking her insides.

"He won't leave the house!" she called out, knowing Qianbei was somewhere in the house.

He shuffled into the kitchen, his slippers scuffing quietly along the tiles, and looked at her with an expression like a sigh, without the heaving of breath, as if to say that this matter wasn't worth it.

"What?" she demanded, and he ran a hand lightly along, not through, his hair, expertly not messing it up.

She clacked her glass down onto the bench and swept from the kitchen to retrieve her bag, which didn't contain anything wholesome, except for her keys and wallet. Which could be used for unwholesome things, anyway.

Qianbei shuffled after her and placed a hand on her back, making her jump in surprise. The hand slid up her shoulder and enfolded it in a squeeze, which she tensed against before relaxing into it.

“Leave it be, for the moment,” he said. “Sounds like he’s in a bad way. How would tormenting him be any fun?”

“It wouldn’t,” she pouted. “That’s why he needs to snap out of it.”

“There are probably better ways of achieving that than stalking him,” he said.

She paused, looking at his slippers, her lips pursed and her eyebrows scrunched. He had a point. She would have to do something.

~*~

Drew sat next to Vincent in the muster room and clacked her fingernails against the desk. He turned to look at her irritably, a swatting movement that stuck as he accidentally made eye contact with her steel gaze. 

"So, she said, her jaw staying firm. "How's Lain?"

The colour fled his face and he turned back to his computer. "I don't know." 

"Oh, really?" She grimaced. " I do." 

He winced and didn't answer, scrolling through a document he could barely see through the cloud of thoughts over his eyes. 

"He's not doing so well. But none of us know why," she said, searching his face. "I thought it might have something to do with the way you've been slouching about the place and yelling at our superiors."

"Who knows?" he said blandly, though she heard the hitch in his voice. 

She restrained herself from throwing her head onto the desk in frustration. 

"Well, he certainly doesn't, and it's unkind to keep him in the dark."

"You don't know anything," he said, quiet but harsh, and though he didn't take his eyes off the screen, his scrolling stopped. 

"Well." She paused uncertainly. "Maybe I don't have a right to know. But Lain does."

"He certainly does not," Vincent said, and went back to scrolling blindly. The urge to yell at her, stretching its limbs inside him and waiting to leap out, never did. It just stretched. Postured. He hated posturing.

Drew observed him for a while, as though his face might reveal what his voice refused to. But that steady, unfocused gaze, furrowed brow and thin lips could only reveal so much. The sickly yellow tinge to his even paler than usual skin and the purple-grey crescents under his eyes, like the shadows of two moons orbiting a planet millions of light years from the sun, revealed a little more, but no specifics. A dark liquid welled up inside her, like a flooding basement threatening to saturate its ceiling and bring the rest of the house sinking into it. 

She quickly stacked her files in a perfectly rectangular pile in front of her and got up, racing to the bathroom before she embarrassed herself. 

~*~

Lain sat up in bed, his brain tipping to and fro like a lifeboat in a storm. It felt strange, to be getting up without the sound of his phone ringing or the door knocking. Just another symptom of how pathetic he'd been, wasting Yelizabeta's time like she was his mother. Not that his mother would have treated him like this, even if he'd still give her the time of day. 

He got up and walked towards the bathroom, then stopped, turning and blinking. What was  _ he _ doing here? Oh, of course he was here. Any mention of his mother, and he'd come running. Lovely Dad, looking like he'd run his hands through his hair too many times, or like he'd been half asleep for days. Eyes glistening, even though he wasn't currently crying. 

Lain took a step towards his father, then hesitated, for he seemed to be mimicking him. No. That mimicked hesitation was far too synchronised. He looked down at himself, at the creased pajamas and dressing gown that hung from him like tattered curtains in a haunted house. His fathers' attire was the same. Exactly. 

It wasn't his father. It was him. Him! The golden frame of the mirror seemed now to set him squarely in his place, with no escape from those boundaries, to forever be mistaken for the one he swore he wouldn't become. 

He turned back and fled under the covers of his bed, burrowing head first like a mole, knowing full well that this would do nothing to banish that reflection. 

A couple of hours passed, his breaths getting trapped under the bedding and heating up. A clatter sounded somewhere outside his cocoon, and it was too erratic to be a knock at the door.    
He peeked his head out from under the blankets, surprised at how cool the air actually was; it shocked him into wakefulness. Avoiding looking at the mirror, he rose, and sat at the edge of the bed. The scratch of the carpet against his feet was like sandpaper against his brain. He had always been proud of his soft carpet that tried to swallow feet. Now, every fibre was grinding its way through the blurring of his senses. 

Even he could recognise the sound of footsteps downstairs. Swift, but unconcealed, thudding up the stairs with abandon. Promptly, Ember stood at his bedroom door, steadying herself on the door frame while her chest struggled to contain her breaths.

"Why won't you leave the house?" she demanded. "Just for a second, even? Into the garden? Is everything really that bad?"

He shrunk back as her tone became wilder and wilder, slowly trying to process what she was asking of him. 

"I can't," he said, each word sounding like it had come from a separate sentence. 

"Of course you can," she said briskly, lurching forwards and grabbing his hand. "It's easy. Like this."

She yanked him upright and he tumbled into her, making both of them stagger. She placed both hands on his upper arms and set him firmly back on his own balance. 

The look he gave her said, _ I can't even do that right. _

"Come on," she said, slapping him on the back. "We're going on a trip."

Still gripping one of his arms, she led him out of his room, down the stairs and out the back door, which should not have been open. He looked at it curiously. It's unmarred appearance, not a single scratch on the glass or the bronze handle, was hard to process, so he focussed on following Ember without tripping. 

She led him out into the garden, which had overgrown into a snarling tangle of roses, succulents, lillies and other assorted plants. They appeared to be cohabitating without human intervention, though she knew how he loved to get out there and drag weeds out, replace plants and feed them expensive 'food'. Well, on good days. 

There was a bench at the edge, with a vine winding its way up it's legs like a needy lover. She sat him down on it, perturbed by how pliant he was, then hesitated in front of him. 

"It's never fun when you're like this!" she lamented. "Is this a tactic? Are you trying to make me not want to get revenge?"

"Revenge for what?" he said slowly, mouthing through the thick, dark treacle gumming up his thoughts.

She paused. She couldn't remember. 

"Fine," she said, slapping her hands against her tight jeans. "We'll do something else."

"Oh God," he said, mouth quivering in mortification.

"What?" she snapped. "I haven't told you what we're doing, yet."

"Even you're taking pity on me," he moaned. His head sunk martyr low. 

"If you don't want pity, stop acting so pitiful!"

"But," he paused, "I do want pity."

"Always the honest one." She rolled her eyes. "Come on. Get up by yourself, this time."

He looked at his legs dubiously, as though he'd never seen them do such a feat before. But a yank at his collar drove him upwards, and he shuffled after Ember on his own when she whirled around and strode back inside. 

"Now, get in the shower. You smell like sweat that's been trapped under bedcovers for days."

She knew him too well. 

He trudged towards the stairs, looked back at her brimstone glare, and kept going. 

~*~

Not knowing where they were going stung Lain's brain, but he didn't feel like asking her. Words always got lost in his brain when it was waterlogged, and he didn't have the energy to go wading around, trying to find the right ones. 

"Look in the back seat," Ember said, waving her hand over her shoulder while keeping her eyes on the road. Red lights flared insolently from their perches, seeming to conspire against a speedy trip. Sparrows fluttered before her grille, dodging away at the last minute. 

Lain turned to look halfheartedly, then gripped the seat. Lighter fluid. A small coal barbecue. Old rags that looked like they used to sport pictures of frolicking bunnies, like her plan was to destroy a trinket from childhood. 

He deigned to ask, "What were you going to burn?"

"I was feeling sorry for you, so I was just going to make your house all smoky," she said, grimacing. "Look what you've done! Made this less fun, that's what."

"Nothing's fun anymore," he said, eyes welling up, still looking at the rag.

"Nothing's changed, except you."

"No. Something changed."

"Did Vincey realise what a loon you are?"

"Maybe."

"I see." she pondered this for a moment, her lips twisting. "Let's go burn his stuff."

Lain shook his head. "I don't want to."

"Sure you do!" she said with jarring joviality. "Nothing better than terrorising an ex!"

"I've never felt compelled to do that," he said quietly. 

"Well, now you're emotionally invested in an ex, so you've got to feel compelled!"

He turned back to face the front and slumped in his seat. Such a feeling of anger would have been welcome, a flaring of life in his gut, but it wouldn't come. Maybe it would come later. And, then, no doubt, he'd do something stupid, and Vincent would hate him even more. 

Instead of arguing with her, he watched the road flow before and under them, a steady stream of black, its tiny bumps and nooks each sporting a dull, hard glint like the moon overhead. 

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go smoke out the lobby of his apartment building.”

Lain shrugged. “You can’t get in there without a key card.”

Ember’s lip curled back from her teeth at the apathetic tone of his voice. It wasn’t _ right _ , and it was making her feel like he was just going along with her out of some horrible tolerance or kindness. She glanced at him, then back at the road. His back had melted into the car seat, it seemed.

When they got to Vincent's apartment building, Lain didn't think to ask how she knew where it was. The tall, white lines of the structure sliced into him and let the air out of his lungs. He dove down, pressing his head into his knees while the seatbelt cut into his neck. Ember's hand hovered above his back for a moment, every pore stinging, then patted him until the shards of the building were gone from his lungs. But he didn't look up. 

She parked the car on the footpath, pulled a balaclava over her head and hair, and got out to retrieve the rag and the barbecue. While she set it into position in front of the glass lobby doors, she pretended she didn't care whether Lain looked up or not. Right before she leant down to light the barbecue, he appeared next to her, glistening eyes peering out of his balaclava. He crouched in front of the barbecue and pressed his lighter against the glistening coals. Click click click, no flame appeared. He rocked back and away from the barbecue, glaring at it with a jutting jaw. A tear trickled through the wool of his balaclava.    
"Give me that," she growled and snatched the lighter off him. 

She flicked at it futilely for a moment, then flung it down the concrete steps. Her own lighter produced a giant burst of orange that set the coals alight. She handed Lain the rag and raised an eyebrow. He took it, glanced upwards, then threw it on the barbecue. 

She stood up and away from the smoke that started seeping out of the material, then whacked at Lain's shoulder, for he hadn't moved. 

"You'll wreck your lungs," she said, pulling him by the shirt. 

He whirled around, point of balance tipping two and fro, and sunk a claw-like fist into her hair, yanking as hard as his limbs, so out of practice, could.

As she yelped, he hissed, “Take me home,” hot tears burning his eyelids.

“Why don’t I just leave you here to find your own way?” she growled, swinging her hand back and slapping him full in the face.

“You’re such a bitch,” he said, his angry tone unable to disguise the sob in his voice, releasing her hair and shoving her backwards.

She caught one of his wrists and squeezed it tight, bringing it around behind his back. It was a little too much for him, and he stumbled backwards and into her. She found herself supporting his weight, instead of causing him pain.

“You’re such a basket case,” she said in his ear. “And, yet, you still think you’re better than me.”

“Do I, now?” he said, quiet, soft, deep, slow, sinking his weight further into her, while the smoke curled around the edges of the building but failed to seep in.

She froze, then hefted him upright and led him to her car without another word from between her grinding teeth.

~*~

Qianbei cut his chicken into tiny pieces and swallowed them like tablets, staring uncertainly at Ember. She stuffed chunks into her mouth and winced as she chewed them. They scraped along the lining of her throat, sparking the flakes of chilli powder like tinder.

"It's a little hot for me," he said softly.

She paused, putting her knife and fork down, and said, "Sorry."

"It's okay," he said with surprise, then noticed she was tearing up. 

He leant over their bluebell patterned plates and wiped at the moisture on her lower lashes, and she said, "It's from the chilli." 

"I know," he said mildly, though he wasn't entirely sure. 

They sat there for a moment, forks down, his hand still at her cheek.

"About Lain," he said nervously, almost aborting the sentence halfway through, "apparently, he's upset because his best friend - maybe boyfriend - won't talk to him anymore."

She closed her eyes and nodded. 

"He told me it was something to do with him," she said. "I guessed it, too."

"You did?"

"Something was going on, whether inside or outside their heads," she said, anger making her words sound like an accusation. "How could it have been more obvious?"

"Are you jealous?" he blurted out. 

She stared at him for a moment, eyes glistening and bulging. 

"No!" The word was forced from her body in a gale of breath.

He settled back in his chair uncomfortably.

"Are you?" she demanded. 

His mouth clamped shut, and he glared at her indignantly. 

"Well?" she said through her teeth. 

"Yes," he said clearly, head held high, meeting her scorching gaze levelly. 

A fume of air exited her nostrils, making a hissing sound, like steam being released. 

"What are you implying?" she asked, voice beginning to shake with anger, nausea rinsing through her. 

"I don't know, lah," he said, voice only raising a notch. "I don't know how to interpret the fact that you seem more interested in him than me."

"Fact?!" she almost roared. 

"You're always anxious to see him, lah."

"I want to burn down his house, not fuck him!" she screeched, cutting her palms on her nails as she balled her hands into fists. "How could you accuse me of this?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything, lah," he said, holding up his hands and exposing his own unmarred palms. 

"Yes you are!" She shoved him with her balled fist, knocking him back. His chair legs reared, then slammed into the floor, rose wood on apricot tiles.

He didn't say anything, just rubbed the spot where she'd hit him and stood up, escaping to the bathroom. 

She stared down the hallway, a shadow seeming to ooze down the path he’d taken, then at her hand. It tingled and shook, like billions of bacteria were feasting on it. The tingle spread up her arm and to her heart, where it turned into a sharp pain. Her untainted hand clutched at her sternum as it heaved.

~*~

Drew hadn't remembered Ember looking so incondite when she'd met her before. Had her imagination imposed the flawless makeup, expertly tousled hair and self-assured expression upon her in hindsight? But she definitely would have remembered this. Hair in a tangling ponytail, not bothering to hide the weave underneath; a broken nail clicking against the speckled grey desk she leant on, and no foundation to hide the bags under her eyes. 

"Ah!" Ember's eyes flared when she saw Drew pass through the police station lobby, swinging a key-card from her tightly balled fist. 

Drew stopped and walked to her, trying to swallow her blush back down, before it exposed itself on her skin. 

"You know Vincey, right?" Ember asked, clacking over to her in spiky wedges. 

"Yes," Drew said. 

"Do you want me to get rid of her?" the man behind the front desk asked, looking at Ember with a tight grimace.

"It's okay," Drew said, waving him off, before turning back to Ember.

"That guy's a dick." Ember leant forwards, into Drew, who stumbled back a step and coughed into her hand.

"What do you want with Vincent?" she asked. 

"I need to talk to him. About Lain," Ember said.

"Oh! That's not an easy task, but...I'll take you to him, anyway." Vincent was not going to be happy with her for this, but she was counting on it making him happy in the long run. 

"Thank you," Ember said hands clasped, following Drew as she led her into a small room leading off the left of the lobby. A plain white table and two plastic and metal black chairs stood in the centre. Ember winced as she perched on the edge of the nearest tacky chair.

"I'll just go get him," Drew said, hopping on the balls of her feet before darting out of the room. Then her head reappeared in the doorway, and she asked, "Am I allowed to ask why you're helping Lain?"

"No," Ember said, and the smile on her mouth didn't match her eyes. 

While Drew was fetching her victim, Ember attempted to pull the broken part of her nail clean off. But it started to pull downwards, into the part attached to the skin. She clenched her jaw in frustration and left it alone. 

Vincent, matching the decor of the room in skin, clothing colour and quality, appeared in the doorway, and blanched even further. He looked back at Drew, behind him, who gave him an insincere "sorry" and pushed him into the room. The door slammed shut behind him, and his eyes darted to it, while he considered making a hasty and dignified exit. 

"What do you want?" he asked, turning to glare at Ember. 

She stood up, unprepared to be physically looked down on by him, and said, "Lain has to get lucid again, and that's unlikely to happen if you don't tell him what he did wrong."

"That's not my responsibility, and it isn't yours, either."

She looked past his frozen irises and spied the wavering of something behind them, like steam. 

"It's in my best interests," she said.

He furrowed his brow at her, then said, "Not mine."

As he turned to leave, hand rising to the door handle, she reached out and gripped the edge of his shirt, nails digging into the thin fabric. 

"Look," she growled. "I think I know why you're mad at Lain, and it's a load of crock."

He tried to pull away from her, but her grip was reinforced with desperation, running through her like steel. 

"Todd told me what he said to you, all proud of himself. I would've put you right sooner, but I didn't realise you were stupid enough to believe it."

Vincent balked and tried to pull away, his mouth welding shut under the torch of her eyes.

"Why the fuck would you believe him?” she continued. “He wanted to break you two up! He told me Lain invited him over to watch DVDs and then fell asleep in front of the TV!"

An essential part of Vincent's consciousness floated up and away from him, leaving him to half-faint against the door behind him.

"The thing you now have to ask yourself is...who is more trustworthy? Your love rival or your lover's enemy?" she said, suddenly calm, as though she had absorbed what he had lost. She let his shirt go, and it slumped against his hips in a mimic of his posture.

Looking down at her, his eyes half open and barely focused, he said, "You."

She grinned and slapped him on the arm. "Maybe you're not quite so stupid. Here's some advice. Only tell Lain about what happened if you want Todd to die. And then run very far away."

Cold beads of sweat emerged on Vincent’s skin. He nodded, then stood up straight, though the movement made him want to vomit. After straightening his clothes and wiping the sweat off his forehead and upper lip, he said, "Thank you for putting me right."

When he said nothing more, Ember stood up and said, "Just tell Lain he owes me."

Vincent nodded once, then turned to open the door, letting her out first. When she’d walked out, he sat in the chair she had just vacated, slumping down and letting his forehead hit the cold tabletop. Seven more hours of his shift awaited, filled with curious looks and prying conversation starters from Drew, a wide berth given by the rest of the staff, and a thief hiding in a tunnel from the dogs. 

~*~

Qianbei looked up from his book when he heard the click of the front door opening, then burrowed his eyes back into the page, though the meanings of the characters seemed to have escaped while he wasn't looking. Ember entered the room and watched him for a moment, until his eyes floated back up, meeting hers accidentally. 

"Sorry, again," she said, then chewed on her bottom lip while he shrugged. "I talked to Vincent," she continued. "Turns out, he thought Lain had cheated on him with Todd." She laughed clearly and without mirth. "I put him right. God, Todd's gonna kill me."

Qianbei's brow furrowed. "How do you know more about this than Yelizabeta?"

"I'm smarter?"

He wasn't convinced, and gave her an uncertain grimace. 

"Okay, I don't know how you guys didn't know," she said. 

He shrugged. "Why did you help them? Was it to prove to me that you don't like Lain?"

"A little bit," she said, sitting next to him on the couch, as close as she dared. "But mostly...I want normal Lain back." She pushed her face into the back of the couch, letting it squash her nose.

When he remained silent, staring at her with morose, heavy eyes, she clarified, voice muffled by the couch, "For beating up, I promise. Or are you so jealous that you'd rather I beat you up?"

When she pried her face off the couch, two black crescents remained on the material, matching the smudges underneath her eyes, the remains of the not-so-expertly applied mascara she'd put on that morning. They both stared at the stains, eyes blinking wide, until Ember sprung off the couch and ran into the laundry. She came out with a bottle of stain remover and started dabbing globs of it onto the tiny crescents. Qianbei retraced her footsteps into the laundry and retrieved a cloth and a bucket of water, and started mopping up the globs. 

"I hope it doesn't have to go in the wash," Ember said, twisting the bottle of stain remover in her hands.

"It won't," Qianbei said triumphantly, standing back from the couch and extending an arm towards the wet, but unstained, patch of the couch. 

"Excellent!" she said with a bounce, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before running upstairs to get her hair dryer. 

When the couch was dry and they were able to, once again, look at its taupe fabric with pride, they congratulated each other. Ostensibly, for cleaning the stains, but really for doing so while being nice to each other. 


	16. Chapter 16

Vincent stared at the intercom at Lain's gate as though he was trying to open it with his mind. But his mind wasn't capable of that. It wasn't capable of doing anything. You may ask how he had reached the gate at all, in that case. He wasn't sure. 

Finally, his finger connected with the buzzer. He leant against the wall to wait, pressing a finger to his temple as though it could relieve the throb in his head that threatened to incapacitate him even further. 

At no sign of activity from the intercom, he pried himself off the wall and scrubbed flecks of stone off his cheek. But failed to move any further. 

Crackle. "Hello?"

That was definitely Lain, though his voice sounded deeper and slower, like it was being forced through deep water. Vincent swallowed roughly and scrunched his eyes closed. 

"It's Vincent," he said. 

"Oh!" Lain's voice was now little more than breath. 

The gates clanged, jolting Vincent away from the wall, and he slipped through the opening when it was big enough. As he made his way up the driveway and the path to the front door, his thin-soled shoes letting him feel every stone he chanced across, he wasn't sure whether he wanted to keep moving forward or run back the other way. 

After one knock on the door, it began to slowly open, sending his fist tumbling forward onto the receding wooden surface. A man stood on the other side who looked like Lain, and yet didn't.

Vincent had never seen a speck of stubble on his face before, and now his jaw was covered in far more than a shadow. Maybe the shadow of a monster. And that dressing gown didn't look quite as expensive as it really was, strewn over his body, which was almost skinny enough to rival Vincent's own. The bags under his eyes...he'd seen those before, but that look in his eyes - it was barely a look. The shape of a look, sketched in feathery HB pencil. Where was that usual over abundance of emotion? Vincent's stomach churned, convinced that the month had worn all of Lain's feeling for him away. 

"Hello," he said uncertainly. "Sorry about..." In trying to think of the words to describe what he had done, he found himself staring at it in all it's unreasonable cruelty. It was the monster that was shadowing Lain's face. 

He coughed, pressed a hand to his lips, and realised he was shaking. Lain reached out, slow and laborious, like doing backstroke through custard, and touched that hand, leading Vincent with shuffling, slippered feet down the hall and into the living room. 

"Sit," he said, beckoning to the couch. 

Vincent sat, his joints bending reluctantly, and watched Lain as he sat next to him. Lain watched him back, eyes wide and waiting, their sketchiness shaking and shifting into fog, before liquefying and brimming and - there it was! That overwrought look in his eyes, too much life for one face. 

"I'm an idiot," Vincent said, and his voice was shaking in time to the quiver of Lain's bottom lip. "You should and probably do hate me. I believed false information about you. I shouldn't have. I-"

"It's okay." The words tumbled out of Lain's mouth, then he took in a deep gasp, as one might after a long, continuous spiel. 

"I'm not sure it is," Vincent said. "I let myself be fooled. It's my own damn fault."

"Not mine?" Lain asked, glossy eyes blinking. 

"Not at all."

A smile, a sob, and Lain lurched forwards to hug Vincent, wrapping his arms around him loosely, like doll arms, but his fingers caught in his jacket and balled into fists, which made the rest of his limbs tense up. He turned his face into Vincent's neck, and his breath jolted Vincent into a similar tenseness. But he couldn't move to hug him back, his fingers, instead, clawing into the seat of the couch while his arms went straight as prison bars. His skin prickled and his brain fizzed. He wanted to push Lain off him, but he didn't have the heart to. And, surely, the hug would feel good again, once he stopped hating himself quite so much. 

"Things can go back to the way they were," Lain said, shifting his head so he could talk properly. "Or be however you want them to."

Lain was even more alarmed at how desperate he sounded than Vincent was. He seemed to hear his voice from afar, like a judgmental observer. Prying himself off Vincent, which brought a dull, magnetic ache into his body, he wiped his eyes and said, "I'm happy you don't hate me anymore."

Vincent grimaced. "I couldn't hate you...even then."

He felt like kissing Lain would have been an appropriate thing to do, but his body roiled with with a slow, queasy lurch.

"Oh, your face," Lain said, smoothing down the creases in Vincent's forehead. He sounded a little more like he usually did, in his exasperated empathy. 

"Sick of it already?" Vincent said with a wry grin. 

"God, no," Lain collapsed back onto Vincent in another clingy hug. 

Vincent took a deep breath and slowly raised his hand to Lain's back, letting it sink softly onto the toweling of his dressing gown. 

He rubbed lightly, hand barely daring to press, just skimming across the surface of the material. Lain felt it more than if he had been gouging his nails into his skin. He shivered and lay his head on his shoulder, while Vincent closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his breathing. The nausea was turning into another lightheaded feeling, the tingling one that had buckled his knees that other night. That beautiful, terrifying night.

Just as Vincent’s blush reached its most embarrassing hue, Lain pulled out of the hug and chuckled when he saw it.

“I’ve just realised,” Lain said, pressing his hands to Vincent’s shoulders and squeezing them, “I’m disgusting.”

“What?” Vincent said, startled. “No-“

“Yes, I am. I haven’t had a shower since…” Lain tried to sift through the sludge of the last few days. “I don’t know. Look at me. No, wait – don’t look at me.”

He stood up, and Vincent pulled at his sleeve.

“I don’t care,” he said, very serious.

“Well, I do.” Lain plucked Vincent’s hand from his sleeve, bent down to kiss his forehead, and left the room with feet that seemed to be filled with helium, compared to moments ago.

Vincent pressed his forehead against the back of the couch and, once Lain was out of sight, a smile of pure joy squeezed out of him, crushing his facial features into formation. His thoughts became a whirlpool, spinning into the centre and down into the depths, and he couldn't make sense of them for a moment, so he just sat there and listened to the water running up the pipes and into Lain's shower. When the sound finally stopped, his thoughts had rearranged themselves into something he could navigate, and they led him off the couch and up the stairs. 

He poked a head into Lain's en suite. Lain was standing at the sink with a beard of shaving foam, razor held aloft. He saw Vincent in the mirror and gave him a smile that was mostly swamped by the foam, then set about scraping it and his stubble into the sink. Vincent leant against the doorframe and watched him shave, apply aftershave, brush his teeth, apply moisturiser to his face and leave in conditioner to his hair. Vincent left the doorframe to sit on the bed when the hair dryer came out of the wardrobe, and he chewed on his lip to stop himself from saying something that might drag Lain's grin down into that disturbing expression from before. 

When the cleaning rigmarole was over, Lain turned to Vincent with a bright smile, his hair puffing up slightly around his face and making him look slightly wild. 

"Should I get dressed?" he asked, darting to the wardrobe and rifling through it. Half the clothes looked new to his eyes, while the other half looked like dear old friends. 

Vincent blushed and tried to think of what to say to that. "If you don't get dressed, does that mean I have to get undressed?"

Lain laughed. "Well! I would like that very much, but it's up to you."

He turned away from the wardrobe and sat on the bed, next to Vincent, whose blush deepened at the proximity to his clean, betowelled person. Swallowing hard, Vincent closed his eyes so he could think better. 

"No pressure!" Lain said, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. 

Vincent's eyes flickered, then closed again. "I want to."

A kiss tore itself from Lain's lips to Vincent's, knocking him backwards, hands gripping a tense jaw that, nevertheless, hinged open instantly. Lain lay on top of Vincent, pressing him down into the mattress until his rigid body melted into something more malleable that squirmed under him. 

"Can I ask," Lain said, lifting his head up and gazing at Vincent with a stare that was frighteningly clear and precise, "the wrong information you got about me, what was it?"

The warm pink hue stripped itself from Vincent's cheeks and he considered Lain for a moment, testing the restrictiveness of the weight on top of him. "Not while you've got me pinned like this."

"Oh." Lain frowned, a slightly pinker than usual lip pouting outwards. He rolled off Vincent and stared at him expectantly, the light coming through the window catching in his eyes and making them almost glow. 

Vincent shifted uncomfortably and said, "Not yet." When Lain's brow furrowed and lips pinched, he added hastily. "I have to make it right, first."

"But you have made it right," Lain said, sidling back to Vincent's side, laying half on top of him. 

"In this way, yes, but...I have to make it even."

"Oh!" A grin erupted on Lain's face. "I see." He gave Vincent a breath-stealing kiss without further question. 

The kiss spun Vincent's mind down routes of thought like a spinning top, as he tried to work out some way to 'make it even' and concentrate on moving his lips in the exact way that would make Lain moan. His own sensations went neglected by his brain, until every thought was ripped from view when Lain ground his leg downwards into his groin. 

~*~

Yelizabeta placed her pair of grocery bags on the footpath and tried to rub away the red and white ridges they'd gouged into her fingers, before pressing the intercom at Lain's gate. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, just in case he didn't hear it (or chose not to - she could never tell). 

"Hello!" Lain's voice chirped through the speaker, and she started. 

"Hi, it's Yelizabeta with groceries," she said. 

"Oh! Thank you," he said, sounding surprised. "Come in."

The gates started to open. She retrieved the grocery bags and waited until the gap was wide enough to fit her petticoat through. He opened the front door before she got to it, clothed in, well, clothes. A dashing green shirt, at that. The smile he wore was the most surprising; it held no whit of irony or sheepishness, let alone the fact that it was turned up at the corners. 

"Thanks so much," he said, rushing forwards and relieving her of the bags. He led her inside and set them on the granite kitchen bench. 

"You look happy," she said. 

He pressed his lips together, but a grin soon burst them apart, small drops of moisture springing to the corners of his eyes. 

"Guess who likes me again," he said, and almost managed to pretend he felt no shame. 

"Ah." She nodded, then smiled as though she didn't see a reason for him to feel shame. "That's great! You'll have to tell me about what happened."

"He just came over last night and said he was sorry and he had been given false information about me. He won't tell me what it is until he's made things even," he said, pulling a packet of mince out of the grocery bag and putting it in the fridge. 

"Oh, he knows you well," she said wryly.

He laughed, an airy sound that floated up to the ceiling. 

"But," she said, "not well enough to know true from false about you."

His lip twisted. "I'm going to see what he says when he tells me what he'd heard. At first I thought he must've believed something bad because he was scared, but it seems there really is something he was fooled about."

"It might be a combination of the two," she said. "But I wouldn't let him get away with not telling you."

"I won't," he said. "I'll just pester him until he caves. Ooh, cookies, you're a sweetheart!" He pulled a packet of six large chocolate biscuits out of the bag and held it aloft. "You know, I haven't eaten in a couple of days."

"Of course chocolate reminds you!" she laughed, though not happily. 

"Oh, be nice!" he said, mistaking her concern for derision, though the smile never left his face. "This'll endear you to me."

He darted into the study to rummage through the pile of papers on his desk.

Following him, she said, "I don't need to be endeared, I hope you know that."

Still, he emerged holding an envelope and a wad of cash.

"To pay you back for everything you've bought me in the last...while," he said, handing her the cash. 

"Month," she said, then looked down at the cash. That was far thicker than the couple of hundred dollars she'd spent on his groceries. "I didn't spend this much!" She flicked through the wad and counted about ten twenties in the first half. "How much is even in here?"

He shrugged. "You keep it. It's my dad's, anyway, and he can't use it, can he?"

"Legally, it's yours, now. Haven't you ever thought about doing something good with your money?"

"I'm doing something good - paying you back!" he said flippantly, darting back to the kitchen. By the time she'd caught up with him, he already had a biscuit in his mouth, the packet torn open in a haphazard zig-zag across the front. 

She fetched them both glasses of water, figuring it couldn't hurt her headache or his chocolate coated throat. 

"When do you think he'll wake up?" he asked, tapping half a biscuit against the packet. 

"You're expecting him to come straight back here?"

"He's still here," he said, beaming as he pointed at the stairs.

"Okay!" She blinked at him, handing him a glass of water, which he threw down his throat. She sipped hers gingerly. "Are you going to sleep tonight?" She cocked her head at him. 

"You know what? I've slept enough. I'm sick of it. How could I sleep, anyway?" He bounced up on the balls of his feet a couple of times, eyes sparking. 

"Sleep a little bit," she said seriously, setting her glass down on the bench and focusing a stern gaze softly on him. 

He paused, considering her for a moment, and swallowed as though she'd given him cod liver oil. 

"Alright, I'll force myself to sleep," he said, frowning at the packet of biscuits, coated in a thick gloss of chocolate that now seemed to shine maliciously at him. 

"Lain, don't be sad." She put a hand on his shoulder. "Just don't go overboard and hurt yourself."

"Of course not," he said, giving her a more somber smile. "I'm just really happy and relieved."

"I am, too." She wrapped an arm around him. "If only because you've shaved. You don't suit stubble - it's frightening."

He laughed. "Hey! I suit everything!"

~*~

A small amount of light filtered through Vincent's eyelashes as he woke up, and he blinked as though it was a piece of grit in his eye. He never woke up in the light. It seemed to be located specifically in the left corner of his eyes. He rolled over to check his bedside clock, but there were no numbers glowing faintly, just a cream lamp with a faint flower pattern sitting on a rosy wooden bedside cabinet. He wasn't at home. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up to take a look around. 

Lain's room, of course. He blushed and reached for his clothes, which were neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Frowning at them, he tried to discern what was wrong with them. They smelt strange, like flowers or cake or something equally nauseating, and we're soft, like they wouldn't keep reminding you that you were wearing them. Lain had cleaned them. Vincent decided Lain was trying to say something. Still, he put them on, and it wasn't so bad - half way in between wearing Lain's and his own. 

He turned to the source of the light, the doorway, and got up, searching the room for his mobile and wallet as he went. They were neatly placed on the chest of drawers, exactly perpendicular to the edge. He checked the time on his phone - 10pm - and pocketed them both. 

Out in the hallway, his eyes protesting at the bright lights, he heard a clattering noise downstairs, and followed it. When he got to the kitchen, he found Lain dressed in an apron and wielding a mop at the soggy charcoal tiles of the floor. The rest of the kitchen looked disturbingly clean, like a building company's demonstration house. The floor would soon look the same, after being scrutinised by Lain's needle gaze. His lips were pressed together in either frustration or excitement; it was hard to tell. 

"Vincey!" he exclaimed when he finally looked up. 

"Hey," he said, staring from Lain to the floor, but not daring to cross it with his feet of questionable sanitation. 

"I'm almost done," Lain said, and started mopping faster. "How was your sleep?"

"Fine." Vincent shrugged. "Thanks. Is that clean enough?"

"It will be!" Lain said brightly, as though he couldn't hear the sarcastic tone to Vincent's voice. "I also did all the washing and wiped the dust off  _ everything _ ."

After a little more scrubbing, Lain moved to the edge of the kitchen floor, mopping up the footprints his slippers made as he did so, and let the mop fall to the ground in a sudden, jarring move, like ripping a geometric picture in two. He bounded to Vincent and swung his arms around him. 

Before Lain could preoccupy his mouth, Vincent said, "I have to go to work, soon."

Lain pouted and tilted his head downwards so he could look at Vincent through his eyelashes. 

"You're such a brat." Vincent rolled his eyes. 

"Oh come on," Lain said through his pout, rubbing his torso against Vincent's. "Just say you're sick."

"No! I've never taken a sick day in my life." Vincent tried half heartedly to wriggle away from Lain. 

"Then they're even more likely to believe you!"

"I don't believe in sick days."

"Oh, really?" Lain dipped his face into the crook of Vincent's neck and started kissing him rapidly. 

Vincent gripped Lain's back and swallowed down a moan, too late for it to go unheard. 

"Stay stay stay," Lain said into his neck, tickling his skin with his breath. 

Vincent tried to shrug him away, but Lain just fused his lips to his neck and started sucking. After pulling Lain's hair just hard enough to hurt, Vincent let his arms hang limply across Lain's shoulders. 

"I don't want to go," he almost whined, closing his eyes and angling his face to the ceiling. 

Lain plucked his face from Vincent's neck, grinning. "Then don't!"

"Alright." Vincent laboriously took his phone out of his pocket. 

He scrolled through the numbers in his contacts list until he came to the number labelled 'work'. And stared at it, chewing his lip while Lain plucked lint off the shoulder of his shirt.

"I can't do it," he said.

Before he could put his phone in his pocket, Lain snatched it out of his hand and sidled away from him, escaping his grabbing hand.

"Oi," Vincent said as he tried to pull Lain back by the waist of his shirt. While Lain tried to wrest his fingers from their stronghold in the material, Vincent tried to make another grab for the phone with his other hand, but Lain angled it up and out of his reach and selected the right contact. The dial tone started ringing and Lain placed it to his ear, and Vincent relaxed his hold on his shirt without letting go of it completely.

"Hi," Lain said into the phone, sounding disconcertingly like a normal and professional person. "I'm a friend of Vin-" he paused for the briefest and most gut clenching second, "cent's. He's really sick tonight, has been all day - I'm looking after him, and there's just no way he's getting to work in a couple of hours. Oh! Is that so?" He raised an eyebrow at Vincent. "That isn't surprising at all. Thanks for your understanding. Bye!"

He hung up the phone and smirked at Vincent for a moment, making his stomach churn.

"What? Plotting to get me fired?"

Lain laughed. "No! They just said you've been looking peaky for ages and they've been trying to get you to take some time off."

Vincent's mouth constricted in mortification.

"Don't be mad! They're just worried about you."

"I'm not some pathetic invalid. I wasn't even sick."

"Then why didn't you look well?" Lain said with playful concern. "Were you sad?"

He sidled back to Vincent's side, who blushed profusely and let his eye contact drop to the floor.

"Did you miss me?" Lain sang, nuzzling his face back into Vincent's neck.

"I think it's pretty obvious," Vincent said shortly, though his hand moved into Lain's hair.

"Obvious that what?" Lain moved back and peeked at Vincent's face, which was bright red and split by the sharp line of his frown.

Vincent glared at him for a moment, then pushed Lain's face back into his neck.

"Come on," Lain said into Vincent's neck as he nudged him backwards.

Vincent just craned his head back, exposing his neck at an obtuse angle, and started drawing light circles with his nails against Lain's scalp. The base of Lain's spine tingled in approval, and he almost forgot the task at hand. Then, all of a sudden, he detached himself and hopped three steps backwards, stepping on the broom handle and wobbling for an ungainly moment.

"How much did you miss me?" The lilt in his voice tipped Vincent's own sense of balance to and fro.

Vincent looked at him warily. "I didn't miss this."

"Don't  _ lie _ ." The word hung there, like a cloak over an unseen object.

"I'm not lying," Vincent said sullenly.

"Tell me how much you missed me," Lain said, the words scraping gently over Vincent's skin. He moved just close enough to to take his hand.

Vincent considered him for a moment, then raised his chin and said, "Make me," and briefly squeezed Lain's hand until it turned the colour of his own blush, then released it in what might have been the most ostentatious move he'd ever made.

When Lain had gulped down enough air to recover from the shock, he reached up and grabbed Vincent's collar, bringing their noses together.

"What's it going to take?" he contemplated in a sing-song voice.

Vincent just held his gaze, almost as if his face didn't feel like it was getting second degree burns. Lain leant in further, their noses slotting next to each other, and Vincent braced himself, but nothing.

"Tell me," Lain said, aggressiveness now grating against his playful lilt, at odds with the warm, soft breath that accompanied it.

Vincent leant forward, trying to close the gap, but Lain shoved him back with the hand at his collar, without letting go.

"You don't deserve a kiss," Lain said pompously, looking down his nose at Vincent.

"That's true," Vincent conceded. "But you still want to give me one. And you have no self control."

"Don't I?" Lain said with an exaggerated gasp, raising his eyebrows and releasing his collar.

"You'll cave."

"No,  _ you'll _ cave."

"I never cave."

Lain burst out laughing, making Vincent grit his teeth. Yes, Vincent still liked to fool himself that Lain had no authority over him.

And, now, caving meant admitting two things - that he had missed him and that he wanted him. Sure, they were both abundantly obvious, but did he have to  _ say _ them? He folded his arms and stared Lain down, while Lain leant back against the outside edge of the kitchen bench and smirked at him, his laughter now mostly abated. When what seemed like enough time had passed, he moved towards Lain, but as soon as his fingers touched his sleeve, Lain slipped away from his reach and settled further down the bench. The frustration started to cloy, and Vincent grabbed at his arm in earnest, only to be butted away by Lain's palm. The dancing light in Lain's eyes began to solidify, glinting off his irises. Vincent finally got some contact with that elusive arm when he shoved him back, and Lain's lip tightened in outrage.

Lain whacked him on the arm, the force stinging through Vincent's flower cake scented sleeve, making him yelp and retaliate in kind.

"What? You started it!" Lain said as he whacked Vincent's other arm, just to be symmetrical.

"Did not." Vincent shoved his shoulder again.

"Did  _ too _ ." Lain shoved him against the bench.

Vincent leant forward, grabbing Lain's upper arms, forcing him closer and digging his nails in. A hiss seethed through Lain's teeth and he yanked on Vincent's collar, which brought their faces close again. The kind of closeness that traps breath, puffing in time with their deep gasps forced through tense bodies. Vincent wasn't even sure he wanted to kiss Lain, anymore, but when his hot, open mouth landed wetly on Lain's, that doubt dissolved in Lain's pheromones like a witch in holy water. Lain moaned and raked his jagged fingernails down Vincent's chest, and it took a moment for him to remember that Vincent did not deserved to be kissed back so eagerly. He gave his bottom lip a sharp nip, and Vincent gasped, feeling a warm tingle soak down his torso and a thrill of fright.

"You prat," Lain said, the light dancing in his eyes again, before clutching Vincent's head and bringing him in for another hard kiss.

When Vincent tried to roll Lain and give him a turn at being flattened against the hard kitchen bench, Lain shoved him back against it until the edge dug in. Lain clawed at the front of his shirt until he found the first button, then wrenched it out of its socket. Vincent wanted to tell him not to break them again, but his mouth was too preoccupied by how far Lain could get his tongue inside it. And then it was gone, instead devouring his now naked chest, while Lain's hands worked at the button and fly of Vincent's pants. When they were open, Lain dropped to his knees and kissed Vincent through his underwear. Vincent gulped down a whine, and Lain smiled up at him, only a little wickedness peeking through those eyelashes that seemed to have become thicker and longer. He pulled Vincent's no-longer-clean and suddenly restrictive underwear down, and...and-

"Tell me you missed me," Lain said, hands firm at Vincent's waist and breath light on his cock.

Vincent's eyes widened and his already staccato heartbeat became foot drum heavy.

"I'll tell you if you...keep going." Vincent's voice snagged on his desperation and started to unravel.

"Keep what going?" Lain said innocently.

"Just - fuck - touch me," Vincent gasped out, and Lain's entire body tingled, his face hovering closer to Vincent's cock.

He let himself flick out a tongue, just enough to make Vincent moan, then stopped, his lips almost touching, his breath gusting over it.

"Well?" Lain asked, his expression almost benign.

Vincent whined and screwed up his face, breaking the illusion that it was made of marble or wax. A high pitched note stowed away in Lain's sigh, despite his effort not to reveal how close he was to throwing Vincent on the floor.

Vincent parted his lips, closed them again, gulped, then whispered, "I missed you. So much..."

The breath caught in Lain's throat and he successfully fought back the feeling that his eyes were about to drown, pressing his face into Vincent's stomach and gritting his teeth. Vincent stole the merest peek at him through his mostly closed eyes. He could just see the top of his head, hair fluffed up in tangled waves, so he ran a hand through it, which managed to soothe Lain, as though his mind had been seeping out in the tufts of hair. Then he collected a fistful of hair and pulled lightly, prying Lain's face off his stomach. For a second, he saw the overwrought contortion of Lain's face, before Lain assembled it into a sly, cheeky grin.

"What was that again?"

"You heard m- Oh  _ God _ ."

There - finally - that soft, perfect mouth - that tingling, soaking warmth, spreading, spreading, unfreezing everything, too hot, too hot - the most shameful noise Vincent had ever made, the most beautiful noise Lain had ever heard.

"Oh, darling, you didn't even make the most of it!" Lain exclaimed.

"Shut up." Vincent tweaked his ear and Lain chuckled.

Lain stood up slowly and wound his arms around Vincent. He gave him a kiss on the cheek, then moved towards the kitchen, but Vincent anchored his arms around his waist.

"I need a glass of water," Lain whined.

"I have to pay you back," Vincent said into his shoulder blade.

"That sounds ominous." Nevertheless, Lain was smiling. He sighed as Vincent's hands moved up to his chest and started unbuttoning his shirt, pressing his chest against his back. Lain, ever the helpful one, unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall to the floor, stepping out of them without getting his feet caught in their tight ankleholds. Vincent released his hold on him and he turned around, showing him what little extra room there was in his briefs.

Vincent kissed Lain softly and without teasing, but Lain's skin still tingled in imagined fright. Then he nudged him towards the doorway to the living room.

"Does my sweetie have sore legs?" Lain's voice was saccharin and his eyes were glinting.

Vincent screwed up his face. "No, and don't call me that."

"Okay, Vincey." Lain nipped him on his bottom lip, then detached from him and sauntered past the living room door and up the stairs.

Vincent rolled his eyes, "Alright, then," and followed Lain, refusing to break his leisurely pace and catch up with him, despite Lain's ostentatious show of taking off his underwear while he walked.

When he got to the bedroom, Lain was sprawled across the bed. The light coming through the door that had once seemed like a needle in his eye now dimly reflected off that smooth body. Vincent blushed and forced himself to approach, his embarrassment mingling with his desire in the queasy, wet heat drenching his body. As he crawled onto the bed, Lain arched his back and spread his legs a little. Vincent kissed him, again softly, tongue moving slowly along the inside of Lain’s parted lips. Lain moaned and clutched at Vincent’s shoulders to bring him closer, but Vincent held back, lightly guiding his fingertips down his chest, around his sides, his arse, and the back of his legs, making Lain shudder and whine. Then he pressed his legs up and apart, exposing Lain in that maddening way Lain had exposed him before.

“Lube and condoms in the top drawer,” Lain said, pointing at the left bedside table.

Vincent couldn’t quite speak, so he just nodded in thanks and retrieved the suggestively shaped bottle and one of the little square packets. He set them down next to Lain and kissed him again, this time letting Lain delve his tongue inside his mouth, pulling away when he started pumping it in, out, in out, though his mouth ached for more. He kissed down his neck, making Lain’s whole spine tingle, right up to the base of his brain. Down further, sucking at a nipple, biting his stomach lightly, dancing his tongue along the back of his legs, down…and then back up, up to his arse, flicking along the curve and inwards.

“Oh!” A jolt of surprise made Lain spasm. “You don’t have to do that.” He pushed at Vincent’s head.

Vincent looked up and swatted Lain’s hand away, fixing him with a stare that sent the tingling back up into his brain. It sparked like a bad plug when that tongue stole another lick along his rim, and a whimper shuddered through him.

“Seriously, that’s gross – you – ah! wait – uh – I don’t – oh oh oh, god, it tickles, it feels like madness, but – but – nnnh.” Lain’s voice descended into whines, sexy, awful, traitorous whines, as his equally traitorous hips jerked up and down. His body tensed and his toes curled, his hole twitching against Vincent’s tongue. Hot, wet tickles short-circuited his neurons, and oh, god, he couldn’t come now – he had to have more – “Vincey, Vincey, oh, get inside me; fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

He grabbed for the lube and wielded it at Vincent, who took it and the condom and covered his fingers and cock, which he was having a hard time refraining from grinding against the mattress. He stretched Lain out with his fingers, amid whines and moans and profanities.

“Okay, okay, get in!” Lain growled.

Vincent slid three fingers out of his arse and looked at it dubiously, wondering how he was going to fit in there. But Lain was scratching at his shoulders and pulling at his hair and his groin was on fire, so he guided himself in, letting out a “Fuck!” at the warm, tight pressure. Lain’s whines turned into moans and grunts, low in his throat, his jaw tightening and his feet curling more. Just as Vincent found his rhythm, Lain tensed up and he couldn’t move anymore, while Lain convulsed and came, triggering his own arousal to send off its flares.

Vincent settled down on top of Lain like a blanket, breathing heavily into his ear. Lain wrapped his arms and legs around him in a squeezing embrace.

“Never fucking do that to me again,” Lain said, voice scorched with lust and anger.

“If I’d known you’d be such a brat, I wouldn’t’ve in the first place,” Vincent said.

“ _ I’m _ a brat?” Lain slapped Vincent’s arse.

“Yeah, you are.” Vincent snuggled into Lain’s neck, giving it a wet kiss.

Lain shoved him away. “Don’t kiss me with that mouth!”

Vincent raised an eyebrow and lunged for him, lips pursed, and Lain scrambled and rolled away from him, teetering on the edge of the bed.

“Go brush your teeth!” he commanded, pointing at Vincent imperiously. “And use the mouthwash!”

Vincent laughed and moved towards him again. Lain grabbed hold of his shoulders, holding him at arm’s length, and pushed him all the way into the en suite, slamming the door after him.


	17. Chapter 17

As Lain drove Vincent to work the next day, he wasn't sure whether he felt happy that he'd won the battle against catching the bus or upset that Vincent had recovered from his fake illness. Vincent was practicing keeping a steady gaze in the mirror, in anticipation of his colleagues asking him about that illness. Not that anyone but Drew would ask.

Lain pulled up to the front of the police station at such a slow crawl that his car's engine began to protest. Vincent gave his arm a light slap and he grudgingly came to a stop in front of the square, stone building.

"You know," he said, "some illnesses last four days."

"Not this one," Vincent said briskly. "Thank you for driving me in."

He opened his door and made to get out, but Lain clutched his arm and anchored him there.

"Wait - kiss goodbye." It was that combination of a whine and a command that children love to deploy.

"Not here." Vincent recoiled.

"Just a peck?"

"It'll ruin my reputation."

"What? As a cold bastard?"

"Yes."

"No one's even looking."

"How do you know?" Vincent looked up and down the street, and spotted Derek and Jason approaching the station. "No way." It wouldn't do for either of them to see him as anything but hieratic.

Lain whined and buried his head in Vincent's shoulder. Vincent pried him off and gave his downturned eyes a stern look. It only wavered a little when Lain tilted his head back up, chin resting on his arm, and batted his sultry eyelashes. Then Lain's gaze drifted just beyond Vincent and he half smiled and waved. Vincent's eyes widened when he looked over his shoulder. Drew was walking  _ past _ the station's glass doors and towards them. 

She hurried over to them and, as Vincent had ceased his bid to leave the car, Lain opened his own door and tried to get his smile to extend to the other half of his mouth.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, her grin showing she had already guessed the answer.

"Yes," Lain said, and  _ there _ , his grin spread over his entire face, barely able to contain the jubilation that pulsed through him.

"I'm so glad," she gushed, resting her hands on her thighs. Her true relief surprised her. Sure, she wished it could have been her, but she was glad it was happening at all. Glad she wouldn't have to watch Vincent try to conceal his misery, anymore.

"What about you?" Lain asked, reminding them both of the reason they hadn't seen each other in a while.

She shrugged. "Just been worrying. My own life's pretty uneventful, at the moment."

"We should do something fun..."

She started. "With me?"

"Only if you want to."

"Well...actually, that would be nice." She twisted the strap of her shoulder bag, creating a coil across her chest. 

"Ok! I'll call you or text you or something."

His smile returned, and she found herself smiling, too, even though they were both wondering what they were thinking.

Vincent finally emerged from the car, giving Lain a stony look, eyes flickering to Drew warily.

"Hi, Vincent," she said cheerily, as though she couldn't notice that expression.

"Hi," he said. "Are we going in?"

"Yes, let's go." She straightened her bag strap and slapped the front of it. "Bye, Lain."

"Bye, Drew. Bye, Vincey," Lain said. After Drew had waved and turned her back, he blew Vincent a kiss, but only received a scowl in return.

As Drew and Vincent approached the station's front doors, she said from behind her hand, "Tell me, were you really sick, yesterday?"

Vincent looked at her with indignation, the toe of his shoe catching in the lip of the doorframe.

"It's alright; I won't tell. And I know what he's like, remember?" Her conscience grabbed at that sentence, just missing its tail end. But a triumphant thrill shot up her spine when Vincent's expression turned from indignation to pink shock, flaring from his cheeks to his eyes.

~*~

Ember stared at her mobile phone, frowning as its metal and plastic frame resisted the squeeze of her hand. Then she pressed the phone number on the screen.

'Calling Todd,' the phone displayed, and she grimaced, lifting the phone up to her ear.

She paced while it rang, fiddling with the tassel on the sleeve of her dress, which looked more like it belonged on a curtain, but that was why she liked it.

"Hey, Ember." His voice sounded like it was being dragged down by undirected disappointment.

"Todd," she said, putting on her breeziest voice, which was difficult, because she wasn't used to faking it. "How're you?"

"Okay," he said as though the point was moot.

"Just okay? In the mood for a party?"

"Always!" he perked up.

"Sally's having one tomorrow."

He groaned. "Sally? Really?"

"You don't have to talk to her."

"Fine. But if she gets bitchy with me, I'm leaving and you're coming with me."

"Okay, okay," she said with a huff, though she knew it would be unlikely they would be leaving together.

"Can I invite Lain?"

Her lips pinched together. "How dare you?"

"Was worth a try."

"Was  _ not _ ."

"Have you guys been at each other's throats, lately?"

“No; he’s been depressed.” Ember tried not to say that too pointedly, lest she give herself away.

“Oh! That’s why he won’t answer my calls, then?” He didn't bother to hide his joy. 

“Yeah...” she said, and quickly ended the conversation, for her throat was beginning to feel blocked with the residue from the lie in her voice.

She then stared at her phone again, digging her toes into the soft pile of her carpet. The next part would be more fun, but more difficult, too.

~*~

Lain turned to look at his phone, then hissed, making Vincent jump. Nevertheless, he shoved his voice down the mouthpiece with a, “What?”

"Nothing that concerns you," Ember said haughtily. "Please may I speak to Vincey?"

"No!" he said in outrage, then turned to Vincent. "She wants to contaminate you."

Vincent rolled his eyes and turned back to the book he was reading, settling into the cushion-like armrest of Lain's couch. Then he remembered what she had done for him, and shame blurred the page out of readability.

"Lain," he said, tapping Lain's shoulder and startling him out of his tirade. "I'll talk to her." He motioned for Lain to give the phone to him.

Lain's teeth ground together and he stared at Vincent for a moment.

"On speakerphone," he said.

"No," Ember said. "Only Vincent."

"I'm not going to get corrupted," Vincent said, thinking, at least not by her.

"Fine," Lain said, throwing the phone at Vincent and stalking out of the room.

Vincent caught the phone and raised it slowly to his ear. "Yes?"

"I have information you may consider valuable," Ember said. "Do whatever you want with it and don't implicate me."

"Alright," Vincent said.

"Todd will be at a party tomorrow. The address is 50 Dulbint Street."

"O-kay," Vincent said slowly.

"That's all!" she said cheerily. "Have fun dealing with Lain!"

She hung up, and he sat there, staring at Lain's overpriced rectangle of a phone. He repeated the address in his head a couple of times, like a computer asking for password confirmation.

Lain's footsteps down the hall made Vincent tense with guilt, but the footsteps only receded again. Vincent got up and followed them down the hall, past a frame filled with medals and into an area of the house he'd never been in: the laundry.

"So," Lain said as he shoved navy sheets into the washing machine. The same sheets they'd been rolling around in a couple of hours ago, Vincent realised with a blush. "What did she want?"

"Nothing important," Vincent said mildly, handing Lain the packet of washing powder.

Lain sprinkled a what could have washed two loads into the washing machine, and slammed the lid closed.

"Really," Lain said, buttons lighting up under each sharp prod of his finger.

The machine whirled into life, and Lain gathered a cloth and disinfectant before sweeping past Vincent and back up to his bedroom.

~*~

The mess of students, alcohol and grubby furniture looked familiar to Vincent, so much so that he reflexively tried to rest his hand on his police uniform belt...that he wasn't wearing. Instead, he was wearing his usual thin black blazer and pants, blending into the other darkly sloppy partygoers. The only people who stood out were Ember, red hair tumbling to her waist as she leant against the far wall, and a petite girl yelling at a couple of drunkards and gesticulating towards a broken lamp. Vincent screwed up his nose, but plowed into the house.

Ember spotted him and caught his eye, then flicked her finger to the left. Her gaze slid away from him, and it was like she'd never spotted him at all, save for the little twitch in her eye as she stopped herself from looking back at him.

To the left of her, Todd slouched against a wooden cabinet, eyes staring vacantly at the girl talking to him while his nose was buried in a glass of amber liquid. Vincent edged along the wall, unable to pretend that he felt comfortable, but nevertheless going unnoticed. When he got to Todd, he tapped him on the shoulder, then gripped his wrist in a fine imitation of a handcuff. Todd spun around, gasped, and strained against Vincent's hand.

"Don't make me look for an excuse to arrest you," Vincent said in a low voice that sedated Todd, despite his panic rising.

"What do you want?" Todd hissed. "Just cause you're jealous..." His voice trailed off under Vincent's sharp glare.

"You're not trying that again," he said, and began to pull Todd along the floral wallpaper, back the way he'd come.

~*~

Lain leapt up from the couch when Vincent called him on the gate intercom, and pressed the button in the hallway to let him in. Relief that he'd come back still shook at him whenever he heard his voice muffling through the speaker.

He opened the door and gulped. Vincent, dark eyed and tense limbed, was pulling a quaking Todd up the driveway to the front door. Todd's sneakers scraped along the gravel, sending stones clattering away from him. 

"Hi." Lain stepped back, beyond the shadow of the door frame.

Vincent brought Todd up the front steps. Lain stepped aside as reluctantly as Todd entered the house.

"I have a confession to make." Vincent's brisk tone almost hid the shake in his voice. "The wrong information that was given to me... The truth is, Todd tricked me into thinking you cheated on me...with him."

Todd winced and strained towards the door as Lain's breathing grew heavy, forcing through his gritted teeth.

"So I've brought him here," Vincent continued, "and I'm going to leave, because I now trust you, and I don't want to have to arrest you for whatever you do next."

He released Todd, who scurried to the far end of the hall and crouched like a rabbit next to the living room door.

Lain balled his hand into a fist, clenching it over the misery of that terrible month. 

_ Hit me.  _

Vincent's thought darted upwards and flattened itself against the ceiling. Still, all three saw it. 

Lain's foot slammed against the parquet floor, and then he was gripping Vincent's jaw and kissing him so hard their teeth cut unto their lips. It held anger and fervent gratitude for this mixture of gifts on his doorstep. He shoved Vincent back over the threshold, the contact of hands to chest sending more of a shock through them than the kiss had, and slammed the door in his face.

Todd, who had found the least lit part of the hallway, waited for the rage that would surely come...but no. Lain pressed his back against the door and slid down it, a dreamy smile rippling across his face as he settled on the floor.

"He understands me," Lain said softly, but loud enough for Todd to hear.

Todd opened his mouth, then closed it, unwilling to risk a reemergence of the rage.

"He told me he was going to make it even and this is just...perfect!" Lain's voice became more animated, hands scrunching in his hair. "I might even be able to forgive him! You, on the other hand," his voice lost its colour, "won't be getting any more chances. Even if I'm so lonely I could die. I'll just die! But how can I be lonely when...when..." He trailed off, staring at his knees.

He looked up. Todd was completely still, mouth pressed firmly shut while his eyes bulged, as though everything he wouldn't let himself say was trying to escape through them.

"Do you want to know how we met?" Lain asked, and resumed talking before Todd could shake his head vigorously. "It was that night Ember pretended to burn Dad's poems. He couldn't put handcuffs on me..." He trailed off, staring at an orange flare of light in the wooden floor. When he spoke again, his words jostled each other in a race to escape his mouth. "It's like I'm all rumpled and he's smoothing me down. Even when he's mad at me. Even when I'm mad at him! I think I like him best at those times. I knew right away that I liked him. But this much?"

They both stared at the floor. Todd's fingernails caught in the gaps between the wood; he made no other move. 

"Well," Lain said with a sigh, as though exhausted after a fight. "I think you can go, now."

He hefted himself up and opened the door like a gracious host.

Todd started, not moving from his perch on the floor, and said, "You're not going to hit me?"

"You didn't hit me, did you?" Lain sad, then gestured to the gravel driveway beyond the door.

"Oh," Todd said, swallowing hard, and stood up slowly, still staring at Lain. As he walked out the door, he turned so that he continued to face him with his ever widening eyes, then slammed his hand against the doorframe and said, "He doesn't understand you. He'll never understand what it's like to be like this." He gestured to Lain's hand, trembling around the door handle, holding it so tight the metal could have caved in. "Filled with too much...feeling! He's just cold. Like he's dead. He's not like us."

"Bye," Lain said, a hammer of a word, and swung the door closed, almost catching Todd's fingers in the slam.

~*~

Vincent had to wonder if this was Lain's punishment for him, since no other had been forthcoming, and surely,  _ surely _ he knew that this was the last thing he'd ever want to do.

Ten pin bowling. With Drew, hair flicked horizontally, and Yelizabeta, in a petticoat as wide as the bowling lane. They were giggling and hefting the ball in the vaguest direction of the pins, while Vincent toppled almost every pin, wishing they were human heads.

"You can't hate it too much," Lain said, pointing at his astronomical score on the screen above their lane.

Vincent just scowled at him and stalked off to the bar at the far end of the bowling alley.

"Your turn!" Drew said, tapping Lain on the arm. A pip of electricity zapped from his jumper to her hand and she let out a squeak.

He laughed and rubbed his arm against her bare palm, and she tumbled backwards and into Yelizabeta, passing on the electric shock.

"Ow!" Yelizabeta rubbed her arm.

"He electrocuted me!" Drew laughed, and prodded Yelizabeta with a still-charged finger.

"Quit it!" Yelizabeta whacked Drew in return, then hopped away in her baby-pink platforms and stood behind the bowling ball dispenser.

Drew rubbed her palm against Lain's jumper, jumping at the shock, then darted after Yelizabeta, who hefted a bowling ball into her hands, raising it threateningly.

Lain laughed while Drew wailed, "No fair!"

Yelizabeta smiled sweetly at her, approaching, ball in arms, while Drew dodged away and hid behind a seat.

"Lain, you've stalled enough, now take your turn," Yelizabeta said, taking the ball to him and rolling it into his arms.

He frowned at it, saying, "I like this new game better."

"No," she said, ignoring his puppy eyes and shunting him off towards the bowling lane.

He flung the ball down the lane and clapped with delight when it rolled into the gutter almost straight away.

Yelizabeta shook her head. “I guess it’s better than overcompetitive Lain,” she said, though she was a little worried at the way his attention was slipping to and fro.

Drew laughed and emerged from her hiding place, then jumped at the sight of Vincent approaching them.

“Vincey!” Lain galloped over to him, almost making him spill his drink. The brown liquid in the drink wobbled in time to his legs.

“Lain,” he said carefully and matter of fact, holding the glass up. “Take a look at this drink, please.”

“Ah...” Lain looked at the drink, then quirked an eyebrow at Vincent. “It’s the alcohol you bought to make my company more bearable.”

Vincent rolled his eyes, and Lain pinched his arm, making him wobble again. The burgundy and pink carpet tipped towards him. 

“No,” Vincent said, frustrated, and steadied himself against Lain. “There’s something wrong with it. I feel dizzy.”

“It was spiked?” Lain said in alarm, grabbing the drink out of Vincent’s hand.

“No,” Vincent said. “I didn’t take my eyes off it. I’m not an idiot.” He didn’t notice Lain’s hiss. “But there’s something wrong with it.”

“Guys,” Drew said, approaching the pair, with Yelizabeta in tow. “A girl over there just fainted.”

They looked where she was pointing, at the girl sprawled next to a shiny black dining table, curled hair splaying along the floor. Another girl shook her, and she winced, but didn’t get up. Vincent’s head spun at the sight, and he leant against Lain more, despite the wavering voice in the back of his head telling him to feel embarrassed.

“Someone poisoned one of the drinks,” Lain said, his voice as tight as his grip on Vincent’s glass.

“Oh my God!” Drew looked at Vincent. Her hand hovered over his shoulder, before fleeing and curling against her own. “I’ll go talk to the bar manager.”

She ran over to the counter, and Yelizabeta started after her, then swivelled back and said, “Take him to the hospital, Lain. You never know.”

~*~

Vincent didn’t know whether it was the whirling of his brain or the frightening speed with which Lain had driven to the hospital, but his vision wouldn’t stop streaming before him, even in the hospital bed, even with his eyes closed, even with a tube shoved down his throat and poison rising out of his stomach. Lain watched it all, vision far too perfect, the tube seeming too bright to be inanimate, and Vincent’s pallor too dull not to be.

When they returned to Lain’s house, he ignored the gash of burnt wood across the front of his door, frosted with fire extinguishing powder, and ferried Vincent to bed. He placed a glass of water on the bedside table, then glared at it, watching bubbles course through it and tiny specks float. He took it to his en suite and tipped it down the sink.

Vincent grumbled, half asleep, and turned his head away from the light filtering through the window, so Lain closed the heavy green curtains tight. Darkness obscured everything in the room, even Vincent’s soft frown. Even the swirls on the roof, which seemed to have come back.

He got out his mobile, ready to dial the only number he knew off by heart, but was halted by Yelizabeta’s text. ‘Someone poisoned the drinks that were on tap, and it must’ve been around when we got there, because no one got sick before that. Drew said forensics found no fingerprints, but they’re looking into Ember, since you were there.’

The vapour of his anger billowed out of Lain’s nose, then he remembered the door. Could she have done that while they were at the hospital? It seemed unlikely.

He punched her number into the phone, ready to berate her about...something.

“Hi, yes, that was an antique door carved from the most beautiful tree in the world,” she answered dismissively. “Why’re the police trying to accuse me of poisoning a bowling alley?”

Lain blinked and sat down, head threatening to spin out of his skull. “I was there, so...”

“Right,” she said. “Well, you go tell them I was busy burning your door. And you’re not pressing charges for that.”

“Why should I do anything for you?”

“Sweetie, do you really want the police to have all the fun?”

“No. I’ll think of something...” he trailed off, then startled himself with a thought. “It can’t have been you at the bowling alley! Why would you poison alcohol when you know I don’t drink?”

“Why, indeed,” she said. “So we’re not the only psychos around.”

“Of course...” Lain said slowly, and bit his lip until it hurt.


	18. Chapter 18

The next night, Lain refused to leave the house, ignoring that his pantry was nearly empty and choosing, instead, to do some nighttime gardening. Anything to keep moving.

Squeezing the weeds and yanking them out of the ground, loosening the soil into a tumult, he almost forgot that he had anything to fear, though the darkness was making it harder to tell whether the stalks that scraped along his palms were really weeds. He looked up at the moon, just a thin curve, hiding in a crease in the sky.

The garden gate rattled, and he spun around, still in a crouch. A crack, and a shadow lunged over the brick wall surrounding the property. Lain ran to it and hefted his elbows onto the wall. His heart felt like it was filling his whole body and thudding hard against the wall. The edge dug into his arms, brown stones sticking in his skivvy. No shadow, just the neighbour's house and shed.

He let himself fall back to the ground, ran to the front of the house, and launched himself at the front gate. The metal bars stung his hands with cold as he gripped them and hefted himself onto a horizontal bar. Poking his head over the filigree spikes, he looked up and down the street. He grit his teeth and shook the bars, which clanged with rage.

A piece of material hung from one of the metal spikes, like a feather caught between a cat's teeth. He reached over and grabbed it, rubbing it between his thumb and fingers as he jumped back onto the gravel driveway. It was soft when he held it lightly in his hand, but when he rubbed too hard, the fibers scratched at his fingerprints.

When he got inside, the light in the entry hall soaked it, and he almost jumped in recognition. He'd never seen Ember in material like this. Seafoam green, with flecks of blue.

He ran to the phone, but his hand hovered over it without landing. It drifted to his pocket and he pulled out his cellphone, instead. His mouth twisted as he pressed Ember's name and sent her a text.

'It wasn't you. It was Todd. Keep an eye on him and I'll call us even.'

'Sending,' the screen proclaimed while Lain's grip on the phone tightened. As soon as 'delivered' appeared under that text, Lain threw the phone down onto the kitchen tiles and slammed his foot into it. Dirt from the garden dislodged from his boot and was mashed into the phone by another stamp of his foot. And another, and another, until the slams and clatters seemed to lift away from their source and bounce off the walls and against his ears. And up the stairs, for Vincent came into the kitchen, hair slightly voluminous and shirt half buttoned.

Vincent took Lain's shoulders and shoved him away from the phone, making him stumble backwards.

"Stop. I thought your phone was valuable," he said, firm voice still clogged with sleep, scraping against the raw walls of his throat.

Lain hissed and shoved Vincent back. "Don't tell me what to do!"

He kicked at the phone, and it skidded across the tiles until it hit the pantry door. Then he wrenched open a cupboard, took out a lighter and stalked outside, where he sat in the middle of the grass and started burning the seafoam green material. The smoke rose in a feeble trail upwards, then dispersed in the wind, while the material blackened.

A cold hand pressed against his shoulder, and he looked up to see Vincent, who was staring at the burning material.

"Your phone still works", Vincent said, throwing it into Lain's lap. "I'm going to work."

"But you just got up!" Lain's eyes started to bulge and water.

"I slept in," Vincent said, finally looking Lain in the eye.

"But..."

"I can't pretend to be sick again. You should try to sleep, anyway."

Lain laughed derisively.

"I'll look into how the investigation's going, when I get to work," Vincent said, giving Lain's shoulder a squeeze that enclosed on him like a cocoon before his hand drifted back to his side.

Lain got up, gave Vincent a hug and a kiss that Vincent had to break. He wanted to offer to drive him to work, but his eyesight was starting to blur like frosted glass in a doorway that just wouldn't open, no matter how hard he concentrated.

~*~

Lain still had his cleaning gloves on when he greeted Vincent in the driveway, the next morning. Vincent sighed and plucked them off, finger by finger, and refused to say anything about the gash on the doorway, even though it had now been sanded and cleaned to the point where he could've sold the door and called it a creative design.

Vincent took the gloves past the front door, through the hallway and into the kitchen, where he placed them in the sink, amongst the neon green-tinged suds tickling the edges of the plug hole. He figured that was a clean thing to do, and less likely to flick at Lain’s mood. Lain just followed him, pursing his lips together to stop himself from saying anything.

“You haven’t slept at all?” Vincent asked, still staring into the sink. His hand shook a little, so he pressed it against the bench.

“I think I slept a bit, on the couch,” Lain said slowly.

“I’m going to have to...lure you into bed.” Vincent swallowed, then turned around, face clean of emotion.

Lain grinned, and steadied himself on his back foot as Vincent’s lips and chest hit him. His hands circled Lain's upper arms, fingers digging into cloth and soft flesh. Lain stepped backwards, out of the kitchen and into the hallway, letting Vincent guide him in the direction of the stairs, then shoved him into the living room, almost breaking the kiss. Vincent pushed back towards the hallway, but only ended up pressing his body closer to Lain’s, where it shivered, joints melting.

Vincent's shirt fell to the floor and his bare back hit textured couch material. The fibers ground into his pores while Lain's naked chest pressed him down. The grandfather clock, the lampshade, the French doors, the coffee table all watched Lain kiss down Vincent's neck, chest, and waist. They saw Vincent's body jolt under the ticklish little kisses. The corner of his mouth tingled in sympathy. The ceiling watched; it could remain blank, unaffected; they all could. Vincent screwed up his eyes, but he only imagined himself, how he must have looked to them, back arched, cock straining against the pants Lain was unbuckling, skin flushed. Lain's kisses started to recede from his consciousness. All he could feel was burning shame. 

He imagined Lain, instead. So much more beautiful than him, smirking as he wielded more power than Vincent had ever held, even though he was weaker than him. Weaker in every way. 

Lain kissed Vincent on the mouth, like a diver coming up for air. Vincent sunk into the kiss, letting all sight drip away from his imagination. Only the feel of Lain's soft, wet lips, darting tongue, smooth skin, the tingle in his mouth, spreading from the roof to his lips, the tickles on the backs of his legs as Lain smoothed them up and outwards, the heat in his groin, a heat that burnt half his brain cells. 

Then Lain's lips were gone as he sat up, and his fingers, now slick, pressed against Vincent's entrance. Vincent gasped, but that sound didn't exist to him, only the feel of Lain's fingers sliding in.

"You're so sexy," Lain whined. 

Vincent flinched away from the images that pushed at his sightless cocoon. 

"Shut up," he growled, then his eyes batted open. 

Lain was knelt before him, knees digging into cushions, skin bright against the burgundy wallpaper beyond. Wallpaper that was dripping with colour, to Lain's eyes. They darted across Vincent's face, under glittering, wet eyelashes. His lips were pinker than usual, matching the blush in his cheeks. He was just as naked and erect as Vincent, and he was beautiful. 

Vincent swallowed hard, then his muscles, his mind, his eyes all relaxed, at least until Lain slipped his fingers out and leant over him. Their bodies melded, coiling tight, and then it didn't matter who looked like what because there seemed to be no difference. 

~*~

Three ants crawled along the living room rug, dodging the leg of the coffee table. The one in the middle was carrying a black crumb three times its size. When they passed through the lightest part of the rug, black legs sinking into the off-white fibers, Lain’s vision sharpened onto them. He hung off the couch, and watched them proceed to the edge of the rug. They stopped and wavered. The drop down to the carpet, soft, fluffy, amber brown, seemed like a trench to them. But they felt their way down, one by one, the black crumb wobbling.

Lain sat up, untangled his legs from Vincent’s, and tip toed out of the room. He came back with the vacuum cleaner and rammed it straight at the little scouts. All lures: crumbs; dust; dirt; flecks of his DNA, whirled into the vacuum cleaner, too.

Vincent groaned and stuffed his head into a cushion, but Lain’s ears were too full of the roar of the vacuum as he scrubbed it along the carpet. Eventually, Vincent sat up, and Lain jumped, but didn’t stop until Vincent reached over and switched the machine off.

“Why do I keep waking up to loud noises?” he asked rubbing at his eyes.

Lain shrugged. “I’m your alarm clock.”

“I usually wake up before my alarm.” Vincent looked over at the clock hanging on the opposite wall, noting with satisfaction that it was only 10pm.

Lain perched his hands and knees at the edge of the couch, eyes crinkling over their bags.

“Can I clean you, instead?” he asked, trailing a finger down Vincent’s chest and hooking it over a nipple.

Vincent gulped on his whine and nodded.

~*~

"Please call in sick, today," Lain said, leaning off the couch and wrapping his arms around Vincent's knees.

"I have a day off, tomorrow." Vincent pried Lain's hands off him, and Lain latched onto his fingers, instead. "We'll go and get you some sleeping pills from the doctor."

Lain detached himself and flattened himself against the back of the couch. "They'll try to give me some _ other _ pills."

"Then I'll go and pretend I've been having trouble sleeping." Vincent's thigh grazed Lain's as he sat next to him.

"Alright." Lain nodded, and stared at the roof for a second. A swirl in the middle of that cream paint. He blinked rapidly as he shifted his gaze back down to Vincent.

He allowed Vincent to leave, with no more clinging hands or wide, quivering eyes. Instead, He followed him out the gate, kissed him at his car, and walked in the opposite direction.

Wide boughs and leaves creaked and swirled above him. He squinted up at them, the sun stinging his eyes in patches, and smiled. His mind told him to run, but when he so much as tried to walk briskly, his legs wobbled, so it took him twice as long as usual to walk around the block. But he didn't mind, for each brick, each patch of grass, each curtain, everything he came across seemed to hold boundless colours, so many little crevices, shadows and flickers of movement. His mind did not have to slow down to accommodate his weary body. 

When he came full circle and arrived at his house, its size frightened him. There were too many details, too many crevices to hide. So he kept walking, counting the hours left of Vincent's shift as he went. Eight hours. Just short enough.

~*~

As Vincent left the police station, the ceiling-high doors swung closed before Drew could pin him with wide eyes and ask after Lain. He sat in Lain’s car for a minute, before driving to the emergency clinic down the road. 

Large concrete steps led up to the frosted glass doors nestled between a pharmacy and a furniture shop. The thought of tomorrow's appointment, half the price and penned into the doctor's schedule, snagged at his mind, but he still walked up those steps and to the reception, to fill out the new patient form.

While he waited to be seen, he sent Lain a text to let him know he'd be a little late. He hoped the lack of response meant Lain was asleep.

The doctor did not ask him to call her by her first name, and did not ask what was so stressful about work that he needed sleeping pills. If their two minute consultation had cost less than ninety dollars, he might have seen her again. As he drove to Lain's house, he almost resented that tiny tube of pills sitting in the passenger seat.

~*~

Lain opened the door, and Vincent jumped backwards. Strips of wallpaper trailed from his fingernails, a smear of blood blending into the burgundy paper.

"Don't worry. I'll tidy up, now." To both of them, Lain's voice sounded like it was coming from down a long hallway.

Vincent didn't answer, just followed Lain into the living room. More wallpaper lay on the carpet, in long, thin strips and nugget sized patches. The pile tickled the legs of the coffee table and obscured half of the rug. Below the clock, an off-white patch of wall had been exposed, while the other three walls had jagged, but evenly spaced stripes scrawling their way down to the floor.

Lain knelt down and gathered as much of the pile as he could into his arms, a little tremble making the paper rustle. Vincent picked up the rest and followed Lain into the back yard, where they let their armfuls fall to the ground, right over the little piece of blackened material lying in the middle of the otherwise green, trimmed grass. The match Lain threw into it got lost in a cave of wallpaper, and burnt it's way out from the inside, a dim glow under the cold grey sky.

~*~

The sleeping pills settled into Lain like baking soda into vinegar, exploding in dreams that fizzled away and reformed, more and more subdued as the night passed.

Vincent stayed awake for the first two hours, just to make sure Lain really did sleep. He ran a hand through the tangle of black hair splayed on Lain's pillow, more to soothe himself than anything else. But that pile of curled and blackened wallpaper, though screened from view by the thick curtains in Lain's bedroom, was pinned to his grey irises, and traces of burgundy and rose were still visible under Lain's fingernails. He couldn't relax.

So he took a sleeping pill for himself, and lay next to Lain, staring at the blank, cream ceiling until it was all that he saw, even in his dreams.

~*~

Drew paced the alley, looking over her shoulder at Eric one more time. He was sifting through a rubbish bin. She giggled, and the sound of her laughter drifted up and above the buildings surrounding them, like a beacon. He held up a loaf of bread and shrugged.

"There's only bread in here."

"I guess this is the back of the bakery," she said, walking over to him. "Is it okay to assume this was another hoax? I don't want a body to turn up tomorrow morning."

"I'll ask Comms," Eric said, pulling out his walkie-talkie. As he talked to the communications centre, he watched Drew wander down the alleyway, until his attention slipped to the asphalt ground. She walked along a granite wall, staring into its bumps and crevices as though tiny people were dealing drugs and stolen cellphones in there.

A strand of her hair, flicking outwards and almost curling back in on itself, suddenly pulled taut, and she jumped, whirling around.

"Eric! Why'd you do that?"

She stopped and stared at Eric, still standing where he was before, softly telling Comms there was nothing in the alley. The rest of the alley was a dark stretch of grey and black. She shivered and scurried back over to Eric.

~*~

Lain woke up to find Vincet next to him, still in his clothes, with barely a crease in the material, though it was pilled into a black fuzz. His back could have been used as a ruler. Lain stared at the black line of his legs and torso, afraid to look anywhere else. If he had looked up, he would have seen only a cream ceiling, marked only by the line of light the gap between his curtains had scorched temporarily into his vision.

His phone rang, and as he grabbed it from his dressing table, his bedside clock blared 8:30 at him. He couldn't remember when Vincent had arrived, only that the sky had been smoke grey. Yelizabeta's name and picture accompanied the trilling of his phone.

"Hi," he answered the call.

"Hi." Yelizabeta let the vowel hang on to her lips for a second. "How're you feeling?"

"Okay," he said, rubbing his forehead.

"Do you want to do something, tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he said, glancing at Vincent, unmoving and expressionless. He touched his wrist to make sure he wasn't dead. He missed his pulse by a couple of millimetres, but the warm tinge to the skin convinced him.

~*~

"Eric and I got called out to a hoax incident," Drew said, glancing at Vincent across Lain's living room while trying not to look at the gouges in the wallpaper behind him.

He was sitting on the couch furthest from Drew, Lain and Yelizabeta, pretending to read a textbook on criminal law. At this, he looked up and said, "What a waste of time."

"I know!" Drew said, slapping her thighs.

"Can't they figure out who it is?" Lain asked, turning his head a little. Yelizabeta wrenched it back into place and resumed swatting at his face with her powder brush.

“It’s always from different payphones and the voice is always different,” Drew said. She picked up a tube of eyelash glue and stared at the Japanese writing on it.

“We’re not putting falsies on Lain,” Yelizabeta said, waving the power brush in the tube’s direction. “He’s got enough eyelashes already.” Her voice held the hint of a grumble.

Vincent turned back to his book, disappointed that the comfort of work-talk had ended.

“Can’t you put the enormous ones on me?” Lain asked.

“No,” she said, firm as the hand gripping his chin. “I left them at home.”

“Will you put some on me?” Drew asked, then regretted it, for no one would say she didn’t need them, and the plastic looked uncomfortable.

“If you want,” Yelizabeta smiled at her, giving no opinion away.

Lain's phone buzzed, sitting on the coffee table, and he leant over Yelizabeta's arm to look at it. Though she quickly pinned him to the back of the couch by his neck, he saw the name that appeared. Drew saw it, too, and stared at her hands, clasped around her knees. Her skin prickled almost as much as Lain's did.

After the blusher (which he didn't really need, anymore), eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick, Lain managed to check his phone.

'~stalking~' was all Ember's text said. He frowned at it, until Yelizabeta's hand held mirror was wielded in his face, and he had to smile and compliment her skills, hoping he wasn't sweating her makeup off.

The two girls clapped in admiration while Vincent glanced up quickly and frowned. Then Drew's transformation began, covering the natural blush that hadn't quite left yet, and certainly wouldn't leave now that Yelizabeta's fingers were tapping her face into position.

~*~

"Move that jellybean over there," Vincent said, leaning over Lain's bare shoulder and tapping at the screen of his phone.

The jellybean flew in the other direction and hit a tiny pixel customer in he head. They left without paying for their meal.

"Why'd you do that?" Lain flung the phone onto the mattress and leapt on Vincent, pinning him down.

"It's your ridiculous phone's fault. I barely touched it." Vincent squirmed sideways until his head was on the pillow and he could look up at Lain more easily.

"Oh? You barely touched it?" Lain lightly stroked Vincent's cheek.

"Yes," Vincent said, swallowing down a sigh with a solemn nod.

"Really?" Lain's fingers fluttered down Vincent's chest, sending a tingling tickle into his flesh.

Vincent blinked the laugh from his face.

"You sure?" Lain's voice slipped from his lips in a breath as he circled his hand around to brush against the back of Vincent's thigh.

Vincent whined, and Lain gasped in delight.

"But I barely touched you!" he said, and dodged the pillow Vincent lobbed at his head.

"You're the worst brat," Vincent said, rolling away from Lain.

"I'm the best brat." Lain curled up behind Vincent, wrapping an arm around his torso.

Vincent wondered if he would have to sleep like this, instead of on his back. He felt neither smothered nor alone. He plucked Lain's hand from its grip on his chest, and kissed each of his fingers. Lain sighed and burrowed his face into his neck, and soon fell asleep, as though that were something that came easy to him.


	19. Chapter 19

The night rustled in the wind, and Vincent woke up, certain he was late. But it was only eleven pm, according to Lain's bedside clock. He settled back into the sheets and shuffled into Lain's side; he'd become dislodged from his embrace while he slept.

At eleven thirty, he got up, dressed himself in yesterday's black pants and black shirt, brushed his teeth and shook Lain's shoulder.

Lain groaned and rolled onto his back, arm swinging out. Vincent caught it and placed it on the mattress, giving his wrist a squeeze and his lips a kiss. Then he tiptoed out of the room and descended the stairs as uncreakingly as he could.

~*~

The road seemed to drift below the car, white and yellow stripes eaten up by the bonnet. Drew was clacking her fingernails against the dashboard, but Vincent didn't mind; it kept him awake enough not to slip off the road and into a bed of bracken and metal road barrier. She tensed when she realised what she was doing, and held the restless hand in the fold of her other palm. 

The radio crackled into a voice, "CAI Comms. We've got a report of screams coming from the back of Mane St, behind Pixie Kids Clothes and Meadow Bakery."

"Comms CAI7, 10-2," Drew chirped. 

Vincent turned the car around and sped up, she flicked on the sirens, and they settled back in their seats, almost comfortable, though countless shadows rustled in the trees and under shop fronts.

~*~

Stinging eyes woke Lain, or perhaps they were caused by wakefulness. He tried to stay in bed for at least five minutes longer, but ended up in his en suite, cupping water in his hand and blinking into it. A thud sounded downstairs, but the running water obscured it from him.

He dried his face and blinked his eyes a few times, satisfied with his regained ability to move his eyelids without wincing.

A clack in the upstairs hallway.

Lain whirled around and tiptoed into his bedroom. He retrieved his trousers from the floor and hurriedly pulled them on, then grabbed the lighter from his bedside table. It was a long one for lighting fires, not flicking at a cigarette.

A woman jumped into the doorway, holding a gun at eye level. When she saw Lain, she aimed for his face, her manicured fingers shaking on the trigger.

A painful jolt of shock sped through Lain, then he recognised the little dent in her nose. He may even have bopped it, a long time ago.

"Cassie," he said in the calmest voice he could muster. "You're doing this for Ember?"

"No," she quavered. "Put down the lighter. We're just taking you somewhere, that's all."

"We're?" Lain's eyes widened.

Another head appeared over Cassie's, chin just above the top of her head. The man's body took up almost the whole doorway. His eyes flashed over Lain, but he kept silent.

"Tie him up and carry him down the stairs," Cassie said to the man.

The man glanced at the gun rattling in her hand, unwilling to become the victim of a slip of her finger, then circled around her and stood behind Lain. A rope emerged from his pocket like a magician's handkerchief.

Lain spread his arms and legs as wide as he could, stretching himself into a starfish shape.

"Shoot me," he said. "You’re not tying me up."

The gun jumped in Cassie's hand as she started. A hand gripped Lain's wrist, and he twisted his fingers around to claw at it, but his fingernails were so bitten down that they barely shifted a cell of the man's skin. The lighter was still in his other hand, and he brought it around, and - there, a burst of orange against tan skin, and more than a few cells shifted.

The man's cry was drowned out by a bang, and a bullet lay in the carpet by Lain's foot.

"Stop!" Cassie roared, to no effect.

Lain kept watching the flame, while he pressed the ignite button until his thumb turned white. He'd never burnt someone else, before. The one time he'd done it to himself, it had been like a gulp of air in the middle of drowning, but it had hurt too much to try again. This was like pouring his anger and panic directly onto the cause.

The man let go of his wrist, escaping the flame, and backed up against the window. The curtains curled around him slightly, as if to capture him.

"We just want to take you somewhere!" Cassie said, flattening herself against the opposite wall.

"Alright," Lain said mildly. "But only if you drop the gun."

Cassie shook her head, gripping the gun tighter, which only served to make it rattle more.

The man crept up behind Lain and, this time, grabbed the wrist attached to the lighter. Lain clenched it until his whole arm ached, tendons about to snap, but the lighter slipped through his fist. In the struggle to gain traction, the man's head butted into Lain's back, sending them both toppling forwards. Cassie squeaked and wielded the gun right in Lain's face, which was hovering far too close to her, steadied only by his bare toes gripping the carpet. He let the momentum carry him forwards, purposefully losing his balance, toes slipping over the carpet, face slipping past the gun, while Cassie watched, but all her hands could do was shake.

The wardrobe doors rattled as he thudded against her, and Lain landed with his chin against her collarbone, one wrist still gripped by the other man. He reached above his shoulder with his other hand and swiped the gun from her.

She and the other man tumbled from him and edged into a corner of the room, huddling together.

"I told you not to bring the gun!" The man yelled.

Lain wielded the gun at them, trying to remember the lesson on gun handling he'd once attended.

"Lain," Cassie said, failing to steady her voice, "let's stay calm. We'll leave, now. You don't have to go with us."

"No," Lain said, voice smooth in comparison to hers. "Take me there."

He flicked his head in the direction of the door, and they scurried out ahead of him, glancing over their shoulders at the gun in his tense hands. His knuckles felt like they would crack apart.

They walked through the house, past the silver-handled umbrella the intruders had knocked over, and out into the street. Their car, greying black, with a dent in the passenger door, was parked half a block away. While Cassie sat in the driver's seat and the man sat next to her, Lain sat in the back seat as though he had been the one to ambush them, holding the gun on his knee.

While they drove closer and closer to central city, he watched the night-soaked street signs pass by, trying to recognise their names. When Cassie parked the car, he had half an idea of where they were.

Cassie pointed down a side street, around the back of a row of clothing shops.

"We were supposed to take you down there."

"Thank you. Now, please get out of the car," Lain said, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"It's not really necessary," Cassie said, while the man obeyed.

"I think it is, so," he gestured to the door with the gun.

They all got out, and Cassie led them down the street while Lain readied the gun, fiddling with the hammer. He shivered, wishing he'd thrown on a shirt before shunting the two out of his house. 

Upon turning the corner, Cassie let out a squeak and the man clutched at her shoulder. Lain pushed them both aside, holding the gun aloft at...Todd.

His back was pressed against the opposite wall, his grey clothes blending into the granite bricks. The gun he held never left its target, even as he turned to stare at the newcomers. That target was flat against the wall Lain had just crept around, only a few metres away. His skin pulled towards them; almost every brain cell screamed for him to stumble over those few metres, except for the cells that commanded his feet not to move from the footpath he stood on.

Drew and Vincent, hands behind their heads, elbows touching, their batons lying at their feet in a grey puddle. Drew looked at Lain out of the corner of her eyes, managing to convey their quivering panic in a glance, before her gaze was pulled by the gun again, watching every minute movement of the trigger finger.

Vincent turned slowly to stare at Lain, mouth relaxing from a taut line into a soft frown, limbs loosening and leaning against the wall behind him, barely feeling the sharp brick edge digging into his back. It was as though death was moving to another city, and Lain had met him at the train station at the last minute.

"Don't look at him!" Todd's voice seared through the night, and all eyes snapped back to him. All except Cassie and her burly companion, who were back in the car, revving the engine.

"Do you think this is going to make me like you?" Lain spat, aiming his gun at the middle of Todd's chest. "If you pull that trigger, I'll kill you!"

"Good," Todd said, and aimed his gun at Vincent's heart, while a small click sounded.

"No!" Drew shouted.

Her leg started shaking so hard it was vibrating as she tried to steady it against the wall. Lain's breath came in gasps that were too big for his throat. Vincent remained still, staring down the barrel of the gun, no expression.

"I'm better looking; I'm fun; I have _ emotions _ ," Todd said, his voice starting to clench and tremble. "So why not me? Why..." He looked at Vincent in despair and disbelief.

Vincent just stared back, not deigning to argue with the implications in Todd's words.

"I'll kill you before you shoot!" Lain yelled, forcing his arms to stop shaking so he could keep his aim.

"Fine! But, as soon as I hear a bang, I'm pulling the trigger, too!"

Lain's voice was strangled by anger and panic as he cried out.

"Comms to I7; any update?" Drew's walkie talkie crackled, the sound seeping over to Todd and making him jump. At that, everyone else jumped, too.

"Don't answer it!" Todd said.

"Okay." Her waterlogged voice barely made it across the alley.

"I'll have to be quick, then," Todd said, more to himself than anyone else, and lined the barrel of the gun up with Vincent's torso.

A bang shut out all noise, and almost all sight, for a moment. Sound came back in a clatter, a cry and a sob, and Todd was running down the street, two streaks of red behind him. One of blood, and one of hair. They dripped and whipped around the curve of the grey wall, while four sets of feet slammed at the tar. 

Vincent slid down the wall, his knees buckling and his adrenaline gone.

Drew bent down to squeeze his shoulder, bending the navy epaulette in her shaking fist, and said, "I'm going to chase after them," before picking up her baton and darting around the corner.

Vincent looked up at Lain, who was still holding his gun aloft, pointing at where Todd had been.

"Don't worry," Vincent said. "She'll catch them. She's fast."

The gun fell from Lain's hand as tears fell from his eyes. Vincent stared at Todd's gun, lying in a pool of blood, thick, clinging to the metal. The sound of a shout, almost a scream, seemed to fall from the sky.

Vincent slid his baton into its slot in his belt, then got up and walked over to Lain.

"I have to follow them," he said, encircling Lain's forearm in a cold hand.

"Wait a second," Lain said. A sob clattered up his throat. He turned to face Vincent, their eyes meeting. "I-" he started, sobbed again, and screwed up his face, dropping his eyes to the damp concrete.

Vincent stood patiently, though the hand that held Lain's arm tightened.

"I love you." Lain's voice welled over with despair.

"I know." Vincent's voice was like a cold compress on a burn. "I love you, too."

Lain lifted his eyes, though his head remained tilted towards the concrete. Vincent tapped under his chin until his face was level with his. Interrupting their stare, Lain screwed up his eyes and gritted his teeth. Vincent took that tense jaw in his hands and kissed him until he relaxed, softening under his breath and lips and tongue.

When their faces parted, they stared down the alleyway. Silence, but for their breathing and the rustling of an animal in the gutter. Holding hands, they followed the trail of Todd's blood.


End file.
